USUK Drabble Calendar: January 2014
by 365daysofUSUK
Summary: A drabble a day keeps you in USUK! The file for the USUK Drabble Calendar, the month of January in the year of 2014.
1. January 1 (Heads Carolina)

ARTIST: carriecmoney (Ellarose C)

**(art viewable at the tumblr or the livejournal under this URL)**

AUTHOR: arakni666 (White Mizerable)

**January 1st, 2014 - Heads Carolina**

"You got a quarter?"

Arthur mumbled something incomprehensible against Alfred's stomach, before sighing irritably and turning his head just enough to glare up into tired blue eyes. "Why do you need a quarter? It's almost midnight."

Shrugging, Al patted that familiar tangle of dirty blond hair and kept his gaze on the television. It wasn't quite time for the countdown yet, there were still several more minutes, but people were already yelling in Times Square, dancing in the lightly falling snow. "I was just thinking. We never made it to New York."

"Oh." Arthur's brows scrunched up as he rolled that over in his mind. "That's too bad, I suppose." Then he shifted on their uncomfortable motel bed, uncurling his legs to let them hang off the edge as he readjusted to lay his cheek on Al's chest. "We did go to a variety of other places."

Al nodded, not moving from his partially propped up position against the pillows. "Guess we did. We got up here, Maine and lobsters and everything. Went down to Disney World."

"Niagara Falls."

"Las Vegas."

"New Orleans."

"Disneyland."

"No," Arthur said snidely, "that doesn't count, it's basically the same."

Al snorted. "Not at all. But fine, we went to… Hawaii."

"Yes, Hawaii." A pause. "How did we get to Hawaii?"

"You know, I don't even remember. Pretty sure it was on a plane."

"How did we afford plane tickets?"

"That's what I don't remember."

Contemplative silence.

"No, wait, it was that weird Spanish guy."

"Who? No, yes, I remember him. Are you sure it was him?"

"It was either him or the French guy. But I don't think it was the French guy 'cause I'm pretty sure you broke his nose."

"…Right. Right, I do recall that."

"Yeah. Hawaii. That was something, really."

"Oh, definitely."

They didn't speak for several minutes. Arthur let out a content hum, shifting again until his ear was right up over Al's heart, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the cold-flushed reporter on the television. Al yawned, once, and let his fingers settle against Arthur's side, his eyes still fixed sleepily on the screen's flickering image. The ball drop was only a minute or two away.

Then, a quiet mumble from Arthur, barely loud enough to break the stillness. "Why a quarter?"

"I was just thinking," Al said again. "We never got to New York. So maybe next year."

"Huh," said Arthur. "Next year."

"Yeah."

The ball dropped.


	2. January 2

ARTIST: owyn-sama

**(art viewable at the tumblr or the livejournal under this URL)**

AUTHOR: alacktheday

**January 2****nd****, 2014**

America was not particularly excited about the first world meeting of 2014. He was still a little hungover from Australia's crazy New Year's party in Sydney, and had the not-so-slight feeling England would still be pissed at him for sneaking that countdown kiss… He had grabbed England just as the clock struck midnight, and it was literally one of the most magical moments in his entire life. The sparkling lights reflecting off the glassy surface of Sydney's Harbor, the light alcoholic haze making everything seem so much louder and lighter, the joyous shouts and cheers of hundreds of thousands of happy people, and England's soft mouth on his, actually kissing back for a minute… until, of course, England realized what was happening, and pushed him away. The backlash had been surprisingly short, as England had only yelled at him for a few minutes before disappearing for the night, so America wouldn't doubt it if England were to be especially angry with him for, say, the rest of the year. It was worth it though.

"He's going to come in here, and you're going to tell him once and for all how you really feel," America muttered to himself, taking his assigned seat, which would of course be next to England.

"Talking to yourself, are you?"

Shit. Speak of the devil.

"Oh, hey England! I was just, um," America laughed nervously, pulling out his secret-agent briefcase. "Getting ready for the meeting, ya know? Making sure my notebooks are ready for some really awesome notes and stuff…"

England sat there, blinking at him, not looking angry in the slightest. "Oh. I thought maybe… never mind, it was silly." His voice was low, speaking in almost a whisper and god, it was hot. Until England started hacking up a lung, that is.

"Jiminy crickets, dude, are you alright?" America patted him softly on the back. "You sound like you're dying!"

"You're not so lucky as that, I'm afraid. It's just a bit of laryngitis, I'll be right as rain in a few days," England murmured as the coughing subsided.

Germany chose that moment to bring the meeting to order, slamming his hand on the desk hard enough to startle Greece awake for a minute. America returned to his seat, and proceeded to alternate between watching England out of the corner of his eye and doodling pictures of England in his notebook using the reformed innovative American pop art style he learned in New York City. At least, until it was time for England himself to present.

"Ahem," England whispered lightly into the mic. "My topic for the day is—"

"Could you speak up, _mon cher_? It's hard to hear you from back here."

"Right, ahem," he continued at a normal speaking level. "My topic for today is Ocean Producti*_squeak_*vity in Coastal Re_*squeak*_gions." He coughed, flushing as several nations began giggling and snickering into their hands. "Ocean Productivity is a large pro_*squeak*_blem because the am_*squeak*_ount of— For Pete's sake, would you shut your bloody mouths?!" He shouted, his voice becoming higher and shriller with every word. "It's not funny, I've got bleeding laryngitis and I shouldn't have to listen to you—"

England was still yelling, but the words has ceased coming out of his mouth and he was left opening and shutting his mouth like a goldfish. France started crying from how much he was laughing, and England ran off into the hallway, looking torn between punching someone and crying himself. America followed, not even bothering to put down his notebook, barely glimpsing the blonde disappearing into a room at the far end of the left hall.

"England? It's me, America. Don't worry, I didn't follow you here to laugh." He slowly opened the door. England was sitting on the floor against the wall, head in his hands. America sat down about a foot away from him. "Don't mind them, you know they're stupid. Even more stupid than me sometimes! It wasn't that bad… it was actually kind of cute, you know."

England looked up at him, eyes widened, surprise and confusion temporarily replacing the embarrassment painting his features. America blushed, realizing what he'd said. "W-what, I can't think you're c-cute?"

England shook his head 'no'.

"Why not? And w-what if I did? England, I- well, I know this isn't the right time for this, but about New Year's…"

Anger and pain flashed across England's face like a strobe light at a rave. He scowled, and opening his mouth to start yelling— before realising he couldn't, of course, as his voice came out as a harsh sizzle of air.

"England, please, don't get angry- I just" _don't know what to say._ _He didn't want to accept my kiss then, why would he accept my love now? _America covered his face with his hands, making a smacking sound as he knocked his notebook against his glasses. …_The notebook._

America quickly flipped open his notebook, turning to his notes from the meeting forcing it into England's hands. He hadn't taken notes on anything- except for England. Six pages, filled with drawings, thoughts, and memories, all of England.

"The reason I followed you here- the reason I kissed you yesterday- well, isn't it obvious? I kind of… love you…" He covered his head with his hands, not wanting to see England's expression of disgust.

He looked up when he heard a pencil scratching on paper. The notebook was shoved back into his face.

"_I thought you were only kissing me because you were drunk and I felt so awful. I suppose I'm the idiot in this case, because I'm undeniably, unbelievably in love with you, too, America."_

The next thing America knew, he was under back under the stars in Sydney- the haze not from any drink, but from the bright green eyes fluttering closed, the perfect lips touching his, the soft hand grasping his hip— London's fog settling in his heart and somehow making everything brighter.


	3. January 3 (Observations)

**ARTIST:** amaryka

**(art viewable at the tumblr or the livejournal under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** corey5268

**January 3rd, 2014 - Observations**

As they sat in traffic, England stared out the window watching the snow, and America changed the song on his iPod no less than six times. While the music changed from Elvis to some band from America's grunge phase, America casually said "I can't wait to get home. I'm freezing." England turned from the window to glance at the temperature of the car. 65 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Why don't you turn it up then?" He asked. It _was _the most logical way to stop being cold, after all. America apparently didn't see it the same way, considering the odd look he gave his companion.

"Because you get lightheaded when the heat is on in the car?" America sounded as confused as he looked. England furrowed his impressive eyebrows.

"You remembered that?"

"Well, yeah." America chuckled, apparently relieved that he wasn't being tested or something. "I've known you for like 400 years. Some things were bound to stick. I didn't want you throwing up in my car because I forgot or something."

"I see. I suppose I was just taken aback. Nobody ever remembers that, so I didn't expect you to." England admitted with a shrug. "Thanks."

"No problem! Your vomit would have been totally disgusting anyway. It's the random info that'll come in handy."

"Such as?" Now his interest was piqued. America smiled brightly and inched the car forward a little bit.

"Little stuff. Like the fact that you constantly put your keys and stuff down absentmindedly, so I should pay attention to where you put stuff or you'll lose it. You can cook Indian food better than almost anyone but India, but you can't make French food to save your life." The car began to pick up a little bit of speed as the traffic thinned out.

"I-" England was interrupted as America honked his horn at a car that was weaving in and out of the lanes.

"What a jackass! I mean, you're not even that bad of a driver, and _you _drive on the wrong side of the road. Yeah, yeah, swords and stuff, but when was the last time you got into a fight on horseback? You need to learn to let things go, and not carry the whole world on your shoulders. You never ask for help! The only way anyone can tell you're upset is because you shower in boiling water if something is bothering you. And you get all quiet, which is weird because you complain when you're happy. Why do you do that? The whole 'stiff upper lip' thing?" America made a right turn on to a smaller street. For a moment, the only noise came from the street outside. England stared at the horizon as flickers of passing streetlights lit up the car before leaving it in darkness over and over again.

"I'm not really sure why I do it," he eventually admitted. "I don't anyone to gain a profit that they don't deserve from my successes, and I don't want anyone else to suffer from my mistakes." America turned into his driveway, and parked his car. He took a deep breath before turning to look England in the eyes.

"I need you to listen to me for a minute. Even if you don't think of me the same way, you're my best friend. I'll always be there if you need help. If we burn, we burn together kicking and screaming. Understand? And I don't think for a _second_ that you'd let anyone take what's rightfully yours."

"I understand. Thank you, America."

"You're welcome." America took his keys out of the ignition and opened the car door. The two made their way to the front door of America's house. As America figured out which keys would unlock the door, England stared at the footprints they had made in the otherwise unbroken snow. The click of the lock and the creak of the door broke his trance, so England turned and followed America inside.

After the two men said their goodnights, England made his way upstairs to the guest room and began getting ready for bed. As he brushed his teeth and put on his pajamas, he thought about the minutiae that America had noticed. As England climbed into bed, he wondered if he himself knew that much about his friend. He knew that America loved horror movies unless they were about ghosts. America was nearsighted in his right eye, but farsighted in the left. _His favourite kind of cheese is Pepper Jack, _remembered England.

England remained awake long after turning out the lights. He thought long and hard about America. He remembered insignificant conversations, and heart-to-hearts had during battle. He remembered the world before America had encouraged his people to invent and create and dream. He did a lot of remembering before his remembering took him to the present again. He did a lot of remembering before he remembered something he hadn't known before. It felt too significant to keep to himself.

England made his way down the hall, through America's bedroom door, perched on the edge of the bed. Much like he often did when America was a child, England combed his fingers through America's hair until the other man stirred.

"Mmm...England? Why're you creeping on me in the middle of the night?" The two nations looked at each other in the darkness.

"You kept my measurement system, and only pretend to hate tea to keep making a 200 year old point." America's confusion melted into a sleepy smile. He scooted to the far side of the bed. Once he was comfortable, he grabbed the hand that had been on his cheek.

"Stay?" England nodded and got under the blankets. There was nothing that needed to be said before morning. As England drifted off to sleep, he could still feel America's warm hand around his own. He knew that he would still feel it there when he woke up, and perhaps for always.


	4. January 4 (My Shadow Weighs Me Down)

**ARTIST:** supershinywords

**(art viewable at the tumblr or the livejournal under this url)**

**AUTHOR:** supershinywords

**January 4th, 2014 - My Shadow Weighs Me Down**

England's eyes drifted to the side. America had been odd all day, subdued when he entered the meeting hall, and now he was reading through his files, looking wan under the fluorescent lights.

England glanced down to see if he could observe anything from the documents, and could only piece together that they were summaries of movements in Afghanistan.

"I just…don't get it," America murmured, so quietly England wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't seen his lips move and known to listen.

England glanced around the room and checked the time, then stood. Italy was finished speaking, conveniently. "Time for a break, I think. Go get something to eat, we'll pick this back up at half two."

Most of the other nations stood, some of them moving slowly until the blood flowed back into their limbs properly and England looked back to America, still seated as he closed his folders and then leaned back in his seat. He slid two fingers under his glasses to rub gently at the dark skin beneath his eye.

He looked…tired. England observed him for a moment and then slipped from the room. There was a break room for the interns down the hall a few turns with an electric kettle. He doubted the other nations knew of it, so it was likely free.

America had barely touched his burger while England had watched and after their lunch break, England had found half of a hamburger in the trash. He'd assumed it had been Canada's leftovers from a lunch he'd been coerced into attending with his brother, but now considered that America might have lost his appetite from stress, as unthinkable as such a thing seemed. Perhaps getting some food into him would help.

He made quick work of a cup of tea and grabbed a sweet roll and some of that abominable jerky one of the interns had taken to and quickly returned to the meeting room. America had folded his arms under his head on the table, though England didn't think he was sleeping. He let his feet drag along the carpet as he approached and was rewarded when America slowly lifted his head.

His glasses were still on – barely – though skewed from his exhausted slump: the blue eyes behind the wire frames were pinched and bleary in the moment they opened before America seemed to draw energy from some reserve. "Break over?"

"Ah…no," England murmured, setting down the packet of jerky and the roll first, then used both hands to steady the tea onto the table.

America stared down at it blankly for a moment before he looked back to England. "What…?

England straightened up and looked past America to the wall just behind his head. He could never be certain how America would respond to his overtures: he'd grown into such a confusing nation for having been such a simple child. "You didn't finish your lunch. I know you don't like tea anymore, but you seemed tired. I thought…"

Despite his efforts not to look America in the eyes in case he threw this effort in his face, he could still see the moment comprehension crossed his face.

"You…" America sighed, voice trailing off as he plucked his glasses off and rubbed his other hand over his face. When it fell, he was smiling faintly. "Still taking care of me, huh?"

England's eyes dipped briefly as he found his own faint smile. "Well."

America laughed softly and looked down at the pitiful offering England had collected with gratitude. England was surprised to realize his eyes, heavy-lidded as they were, shone with tears and found his throat tight with questions he couldn't ask.

_How long have you been so tired? Why are you letting it come to this? Have you been sleeping at all? Do you eat properly?_

But those were questions that would close America's face down without question, and possibly drive him from eating, so England bit his tongue and cleared his throat. "Go ahead then. We don't have much time and I'd rather not have to listen to you speak around your food…again. It's bad enough to hear you butchering English without adding insult to injury."

America turned that small, fond smile on England briefly before he nodded and, leaving his glasses on the table, began splitting into the packaging for the jerky. England glanced down at the spectacles and realized they'd picked up even more smudges. He sighed and picked them up, one hand reaching into his pocket for his square and pinching a corner to shake it out.

The crinkle of plastic faltered and England glanced up to find America hesitating, one hand holding the mug England had unearthed, the other with a ragged chip of beef jerky, both hanging roughly halfway to his mouth. England rolled his eyes as his hands automatically tilted the glasses and began buffing them clean gently to avoid scratching the glass. "Yes?"

Cheeks heating faintly, America dropped his eyes and brought the mug to his mouth quickly. He took a quick gulp and then, eyes wide, pulled the cup away and opened his mouth wide. "Hot! Hot!"

England's mouth twitched.

Twenty minutes later, most of their allies had returned and they were waiting only for the Italy brothers, Austria, and Spain. France had just wandered back in with Estonia, voice rising and falling in cadence that appeared to have hypnotized the other country and his eyes swept the room in a headcount that faltered and ceased when he landed on America.

He excused himself from Estonia, from what England could hear, and crossed the room to where America had demolished the food and reopened his reports. The only proof of his break as far as any of the other nations would be able to see, would be the empty mug. But he did look better, England was pleased to see.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one to notice.

"America! Big brother is pleased to see you with some color again!"

"Hm?" America blinked, looking up and realizing the meeting was about to resume. "Oh, France. Uh, thanks. I was dragging a bit earlier, I guess."

France tilted his head and waved. "I could tell…hm, you aren't fully restored yet, though, are you my dear?" He reached out even as he spoke and America blinked, confused, as one of France's hands approached his face.

England's spine stiffened in outrage at the cheek and he was about to call out to the bastard to mind his hands when America pressed his hand away before it could reach his face – or his spectacles. "I'm fine, France. Don't worry about me, OK?"

England's ire ease and he found himself smirking at the table as France pouted at America. His good mood wasn't even dented when America began laughing with him shortly after as he remembered America's silent permission to handle something precious to him.


	5. January 5

**ARTIST**: gelato-kitty

**(art can be seen on the tumblr or the livejournal under this URL)**

**AUTHOR**: fivedayslater

**January 5th, 2014**

Arthur stared at the scarf in his hands. Green (like his eyes, probably not a coincidence), soft, warm, perfect really, since it was cold out and he had misplaced his scarf. No matter how hard he stared at it, he still couldn't comprehend just why Alfred would bother.

Alfred returned to their corner table in their favorite café with two drinks in hand. Tea – black, two sugars, and a dash of milk – for Arthur, and some sugary coffee concoction with far too much whipped cream on top for himself. He placed the tea down in front of Arthur before sitting down himself and saying, "So, do you like it?"

"Hm?" Arthur looked up and clutched the scarf closer as if Alfred would take it back should he give the wrong answer.

"The scarf," he rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes," he glanced out the window, the snow still falling lightly to the ground where it was promptly turned to slush by the feet of the crowds on the streets. It was a cold and grey January day, or perfect scarf weather depending on who you asked.

"Good," Alfred smiled and took sip of his coffee, "I spent money on it, so you better like it."

"I didn't ask you to get it for me," he put the scarf in his lap and reached for his tea, "You didn't have to."

"I know, but I wanted to. You lost yours a while back didn't you?" he laughed, "You make fun of me for misplacing things, but you're like the most absent minded guy I know."

Arthur crossed his arms and pointedly didn't look at him, "You're an idiot."

"An idiot whose neck isn't freezing," he laughed again but reached across the table for Arthur's hand. Arthur rolled his eyes but relaxed and gave him his hand, "Besides, this is what boyfriends do, yeah?"

Arthur hummed in agreement and traced the lid on his drink, "You're already a good boyfriend."

"Yeah," Alfred laughed, and Arthur could hear the relief in it this time as whatever anxieties he must have been feeling were put to ease. Sometimes he forgot how new all this was to Alfred, "Yeah, I'm like the best boyfriend ever. You're so lucky to have me."

"God knows what I would do without you," his tone was dry and his eye roll sarcastic, but he hoped his smile conveyed his true feelings.

It must have, because Alfred's smile grew as he gave his hand a gentle squeeze. The next moment he had let go and reached behind him for his jacket, "Let's go. This is only part one of our Surprise Date Day."

Arthur blinked in confusion but put his jacket on as well and made sure the lid was on his tea tight, "Where else are we going?"

"If I told you that," Alfred leaned in and kissed his cheek, "it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?"

Arthur grumbled under his breath about not needing surprises as he grabbed his drink and let Alfred lead him out of the café to the cold street. He'd just managed to get his new scarf wound around his neck when the wind started to pick up, scattering snowflakes around them as Alfred led him down the street by his hand.

Yes, he thought as he buried his face further into the scarf, he was very lucky to have Alfred indeed.


	6. January 6

**ARTIST**: deedeex333

**Art can be seen on livejournal or tumblr under this URL**

**AUTHOR**: accioharo

**January 6th, 2014**

America knew it wasn't entirely rational, how much he hated cold weather. He was hardly a tropical country, his land running the gamut from the Arctic temperatures of Alaska to the sun soaked paradise of Hawaii. And it's not as if he hated everything associated with winter. He loved skiing and ice skating and… Christmas was the best thing ever, of course. He was also, he proudly thought, a champion snowball fighter. But all of these things were fun. They distracted him from the bitterness that crept into his bones and the malaise that would seep into his mind on freezing, gray winter days.

Today was one of those days. It was January, so that meant that the Christmas lights were gone, and the strains of Christmas carols had been replaced with the sounds of cars sloshing and feet pattering across the dirty slush that lined the roads and sidewalks. And it was downright glacial out. Okay, that may have been a slight exaggeration, but almost his entire nation was suffering a cold snap and he could feel it throughout every inch of his body. He sniffled and wiped his hand under his nose. How miserable.

Right now he was at the airport, and if you'd asked him this morning if today were going to be a good day, he'd have said yes instantaneously. After all, England was visiting for a week and he was picking him up that afternoon! But now he'd been at the airport for six hours, because the all too cold weather had delayed England's flight. He was bored out of his mind, and he'd probably purchased about seven drinks from the Starbucks already so he was also downright jittery. His phone had run out of battery a few hours before, and although there were charging stations he'd forgotten to bring his charger, so he couldn't even distract himself by surfing the internet or playing games. Driving home and coming back later was an option, but considering rush hour traffic, he'd decided that it would just be more inconvenient.

Plus he didn't want to go back out in the cold until he had to. He sighed dramatically and ran a hand down his face, causing a business man next to him to cock an eyebrow and shoot him a stare. The man whipped a newspaper, a specific publication that America was decidedly not a fan of, back up to cover his face and let out a low grumble. He had a feeling that the man didn't think very highly of him. They'd been next to each other for hours, and the business of the airport at current, due to all the delayed flights, had prevented either of them from finding another chair. There was a negative article on the millennial generation on the cover of the man's paper, which America wrinkled his nose at when he saw. America of course, with his youthful appearance, casual red baggy sweatshirt, and smartphone with its colorful case, looked to be every bit part of that generation to the businessman, and America knew this. If only he knew, America chuckled.

He shook his head in the negative. He loved the youth of his nation and always had. He didn't mind being mistaken for one of them.

America did mind this delay though, and the awful weather that had caused it. He'd been looking forward to England's visit for weeks. He'd spent Christmas in London, which had been a month before, and now England's boss was attending a conference that he wasn't needed at, so he'd planned a trip to Washington DC for that week. But America had never been patient, and he'd been getting antsy for England's visit since long before the flight had been delayed. He was so bored, and he was also starved, but he had promised England reservations to a specific restaurant they'd been eyeing, and if his flight got in soon, he knew they'd still be able to make it. There was a call for a flight to Toronto and the businessman left, leaving his paper behind on the chair. America let out a sigh of relief and hoped for better company for the rest of the delay. Several minutes passed and despite being hyped up on caffeine, he was almost dozing off…

"British Airways flight 262 has arrived. Please proceed to gate—-"

America didn't even need to hear the rest of the statement before he'd leapt out of his chair, his long legs making quick work of the terminal and entering the concourse. He'd arrived at the gate in what he was sure was a ridiculous speed (an employee may have had to tell him to slow down), but he really didn't care. England was on this flight, and his gray day was about to get that much brighter.

And as he looked around as the plane disembarked, he spotted him, waving wildly as he did so. England noticed and his eyes widened, but then narrowed a bit, no doubt due to America's antics. He could practically hear England huff and let out a chuckle, despite the fact that he wasn't in range to do so yet.

England trotted over to him at a brisk pace, and before he'd even had a chance to say anything, America had wrapped his arms around his shoulders, causing England to drop his carryon so he could return the embrace.

"A bit excited are we?" England smiled into the embrace.

"Today has been so boring and cold and…" America whined. England cut him off with a tender, but brief kiss.

"As if I haven't been bored out of my mind as well, Love."

America scratched the back of his head. "Well yeah of course it's just…" he grinned, no beamed, "I'm just really glad you're here."

"Me too." He took America's hand and led him forward. "Right, let's go get my luggage. If we hurry surely we'll have time to make that reservation."

"Y-yeah of course." America squeezed back and swung their arms between them, the cold in his body melting away to be replaced by an indelible warmth.


	7. January 7 (Winter Wonderland)

January 7th, 2014 - Winter Wonderland

**ARTIST:** fauxreblogsthings

**(art can be seen at the LJ or the tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR: **starry-climes

**January 7th, 2014 - Winter Wonderland**

England watched the snow slide off the branch. It had snowed all last night and the night before. The whole vacation destination 'where no one can bother us' had been one of America's hair brained schemes. It had started pleasant, if not cold, in one of Alfred's Northern Midwest states, and then had turned into a nightmare.

England didn't know what to make of the car ride that had led them here. It had been treacherous. He had stared into the dark night with white flakes layered upon each other, backdrop so thick one could only see a few feet ahead of the car. The whole time America did not speak as he drove. That had been eerie, the silence that permeated the car, the only noise had been the windshield wipers making a sickening noise as the ice accumulated on them barely pulled away the gathering snow. America had turned off the lights at one point, and England had turned to see white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. When England asked (slightly terrified) what the hell America was doing, the answer came in monotone that he was following the faint edges of the road.

A snowstorm. They had made through the snow and ice, America groping his keys with frozen hands to unlock the door of the cabin and let them inside.

England had built the fire in the wood burning stove and America wearily had brought in the luggage. They had trod upstairs, England's hope of a fun night blighted by the sleep that nipped their heels.

America had slept in. Apparently 3 hours driving in a blizzard made one tired.

Now, England watched the boy make toast. The relative chilliness of the cabin warmed up at the sight of Alfred's low slung sweatpants, boxers sticking out above in red fold.

"'Ou waun sum?" America turned, his bed head hair endearing, and wife beater shirt outlining every muscle on his well toned chest.

Arthur only scowled despite being charmed. "Proper gentlemen do not speak with their mouth full."

America swallowed and gave a cheeky grin and wink, "Good thing I'm not a proper gentleman."

"Not been since Lexington." England mumbled under his breath, trying to stay annoyed than embrace the fool.

America took the bait, "sheesh," it came out accompanied with an eye roll, " not this again."

England eyed him as a cat would his prey. America grinned and put his head close to England so that blue eyes met green straight on.

"America, you have morning breath..," England said desperately, and if you listened to m…"

Warm lips were on his own. Chapped and warm they just brushed his own, the heat making England push to add to the kiss. Parting with one small final kiss, America shot back as he left the quaint kitchen. "Deal with it old man."

****

America was curled up on the couch. He was reading John Green and every so often his feet would twitch. It was so quiet. When England had asked why there was no TV America had shrugged and told him he thought England was too old for it.

(England would never admit how many nights he would fall asleep with his feet propped up and reading glasses on with the Telly blaring.)

"It reminds me of those first winters."

America just groaned.

"It's not like you remember lad."

"I only remember being cold and hungry."

'This is not why we came here' was written in those sky blue eyes staring at from across the room.

England returned to his cross stitch.

"This is nice." He said quietly, as if no one could hear, his voice seeping under the slight draft of the door out into the wilderness and across the frozen lake.

It's not their usual. England smiles as America stands up stretching, sweater rising and exposing his navel, and flops down on England's couch, uncaring of the sharp object in England's hand. America rests his head on England's lap, hand still holding the book curled around England's hip.

England just gently pets America's hair, running his fingers through it.

All of a sudden it had clicked. America was doing this for him. Giving up his video games and Teevo for him. A little misguided, but sweet. England gives a soft hum of approval at America's hidden flush, reddening his cheeks and his ears.

"I guess we'll be staying awhile."

America nods and England combs through the golden tresses as a cardinal and his mate land on the bush by the window. The snow is white and fluffy. The week seemed full of possibilities—snowmen, snow ball fights, and snow angels. America would love it. For now, England sat, weariness finally taking over him, a nap sounded perfect.

He barely felt himself being covered by a quilt and kissed on the forehead. America had laughed softly though, and he fell into dreams of ice skating on the Thames.


	8. January 8

**AUTHOR:** homesickpirate

**January 8, 2014**

It had been only a few days, but he had been lonely. Though he understood full well the price of upholding a nation, it was often difficult to reconcile them with the benefits. Quite honestly, because there were few.

Immortality; the prize he had won a millenia ago, as he was handpicked by the one who sees all, for him, Arthur Kirkland, to keep watch over the peoples of Albion (Britannia, England, Great Britain, The United Kingdom) for the rest of their days and his.

He hadn't know it would be so much harder when he was no longer alone.

He knew that America had to be present in New York on New Years Eve; he as well was required in London, as were all the rest of the nations in their respective capitols. But it rankled him that he would never have that intimacy of sharing that important moment with the person he loved. Though America was here now- in his arms, lulled asleep by England's methodic hair-petting, he felt as alone as he had the day before- when America hadn't been there. No matter the love he felt for America, the desperate aching and need, he knew that his loyalty would always be first and foremost, to his own, his kin the United Kingdom (Great Britain, England, Britannia, Albion). And that America too had his own peoples to hold fast to, as he had demonstrated countless times, since the very beginning, it seemed.

He looked down fondly at America as he slept, peacefully in his arms and so oblivious to the turmoil in England's heart. He turned and sighed, loudly in his sleep- he looked troubled. England frowned, wondering idly if America had these same thoughts, if he remembered England when the ball dropped in New York city and his heart was full of a thousand lights, the way England remembered America.

In the end, though, it hardly mattered. Because England would be alone on New Year's Eve- every year as it had been for millennia, and America as well. But after the ball dropped and the clock chimed, they rushed to each other as if they had been suffocating alone. Because what could compare to his own loyalty, but the fierce affection he lavished upon America, and what could stand against pride but America's unwavering devotion? It was their love, and that alone, that dissolved the chain-like bonds, holding them to themselves. It set their hearts free to take to the skies- though they had no interest in that- and to peer across the globe in awe and reverence, and to find each other aloft, held by downy wings.


	9. January 9 (Lazyday)

January 9th, 2014- LazyDay

**ARTIST: **fauxreblogsthings

**(art can be found on the LJ or the tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** seecarrun

**January 9th, 2014- LazyDay**

England was _not_ a slob.

And if, every few months or so, he allowed himself a day _to be_ a slob, he was completely in the right. It was good to relax and _let loose_, so to speak. One couldn't wear slacks and a sweater vest every day, after all, and he was no exception.

And what a perfect time to do it; early January, when the air was still cold and damp and the ground wet and slushy, but without the luxury of Christmas or New Years to make it bearable. What a horrible time of year. One day of laziness was most _definitely_ needed.

So when England threw on a faded, holey pair of blue jeans and an old, oversized Oxford pullover from when he received his sixth masters degree to run to the store for some milk, he didn't think twice. He knew his hair was a rats nest because he hadn't showered, and that his eyebrows were even wilder than usual thanks to a lack of tending to them, but he brushed it off.

He never planned a Lazyday when there was evan a _chance _of running into a fellow nation. Especially if that nation was either France of America. France, because the nation had a field day mocking his appearance on a_normal_ day, and America because…well…

Reasons. He had reasons. None of which that had any to do with the big, fat, embarrassing crush he most certainly didn't have on him.

But, France was currently busy with a meeting _in_ America, so with both of his annoyances out of the way, England wasn't worried. He was safe to be a slob in peace.

Which was why, when his name was called from down the aisle, mid-grab for a tin of chocolate biscuits, in a frighteningly familiar America accent, his face drained of color, and he turned to face the offending caller slowly and cautiously.

America, in all his glory, stood at the other end of the aisle. He waved excitedly, as if England needed help spotting him, and started down toward him at a slow jog. Calling "Arthur!" as a way to ensure that the Brit couldn't get away.

England panicked. The chocolate biscuits momentarily forgotten, he ran his hand desperately through his hair in a vain attempt to both tame his fringe and use it to cover up his eyebrows. Why the hell hadn't he at least taken a shower?! He asked himself. Did he even put on deodorant before he left? Oh my god he hadn't, had he? Was he at least wearing clean underwear?!_What the hell was he th-_

"Hello America," he replied calmly as America approached, despite the chaos going on in his head. "What brings you here? I thought you were meeting with France at your home today."

He gave himself a mental pat on the back for managing to sound somewhat normal.

America grinned that stupidly handsome grin of his and waved off the question. "Meh, France called at the last minute, something about a strike with his pilots or something, so I flew in to see him instead!"

_France. _England thought darkly. Leave it to him to ruin his life even when he wasn't trying.

"We got outta the meeting like, an hour ago," America continued, "so I figured I would grab some chow and pay you a visit!"

England ran a hand through his hair, blushing lightly at the fact that America actively sought him out for a visit, but grumbled instead. "Well, thank you for the bloody phone call," he snapped.

America laughed, ignoring him. "I knew you would—" he froze, and Arthur realized with some degree of horror, that he seemed to finally notice his clothes. "Dude, are you sick or something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"No," England snapped, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

"What are you _wearing?_" America snorted.

England, just about positive his face was glowing, stuck his nose into the air and set his best glare in America's direction, painfully aware that America obviously hadn't changed out of his nice suit after his meeting with France and looked _bloody amazing_. "Whatever I _want_ to wear, you git!"

"Okay, okay!" America chuckled, holding up his hands defensively. "I was just wondering, no need to get all grumpy on me!" He put his hands down, smiling sweetly. "I just haven't seen you wear this kinda stuff in forever. I like it! You look relaxed for once!"

England cleared his throat, his ears burning. "W-well yes. I'm a very busy man, and I deserve to relax from time to time."

America smiled knowingly, and England pointedly chose not to think about what, exactly, it was that he knew. "Sooo, since I was on my way over to your house _anyway,_" America sang. "What do you say we get us some snacks, pop in a bad movie, and we can relax together?"

He smiled that smile that England had never been able to turn down, so he decided not to fight it, just this once. "I suppose," he mused with a sigh, and tried not to smile when the American whooped and pumped his fist in the air. "But _I_ will be choosing the movie."

"Works for me!" America chirped, grabbing the chocolate biscuits England had been eyeing earlier, and running off to find ice cream, or something else completely inappropriate for the season. So England followed, albeit at a much slower pace.

So, maybe running into America on his Lazyday wasn't the end of the world…

Like_ hell _he would let France find him, though.


	10. January 10

January 10th, 2014

**ARTIST: **supershinywords

**(art can be viewed at the LJ or the tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** hellieace

**January 10th, 2014**

With the January breeze in the air, Arthur gazed up at the small, but quaint home he shared with his boisterous American boyfriend. A shiver ghosted over the exposed skin of his arms as he watched said lover fiddling with tendrils of brightly colored lights left over from the overabundance of their Christmas decorating. The American was precariously perched at the edge of the roof, leaning over to tug at the lights as they snagged on a shingle.

A loud swear as the other blond nearly slipped had Arthur rolling his eyes, and chastising the younger.

"Really, Alfred?"

"Yeah, really."

"The neighbors are certain to stare."

"So?"

"It's embarrassing!"

"Nah, people do this all the time! I mean how else it goin' to get done?"

"Are you sure? Certainly there's an easier way. One that doesn't involve nearly hanging yourself? Or looking like an idiot on the roof?"

"I'm fine! Sheesh! You're worse than my brother!"

"Matthew has every right to worry! You're going to fall!"

"Whatever, I know what I'm- Ahhh!"

Thud!

"Alfred!" Arthur cried out and dove for the bush his boyfriend had fallen into, a string of Christmas lights cascading down upon him. Head pounding and back aching from his ungraceful fall in an attempt to remove the innumerable amount of Christmas decorations, Alfred was inclined to colorfully cursing gravity for the painful experience. His head turned as he heard the bushes rustle, and the pale, fretful face of his boyfriend appeared from among the foliage. The blue-eyed man groaned, but upon seeing the worry haunting Arthur's bright eyes, he offered a weak smile. Then, with all the triumph of a Super Bowl champion, hoisted the string of lights into the air like a prized trophy.

"Got 'em!" he declared.

Arthur huffed a mildly annoyed sigh, but a beaming smirk from his boyfriend cured him of whatever ire he felt for the man's silly antics in their Christmas cleanup endeavors.

"I think that's enough adventure for you," the older declared. Surprisingly, Alfred didn't argue, and accepted the hand to help him up.

"Yeah, I think the inflatable Rudolph will look great in the yard one more night." Chuckling, Alfred followed his boyfriend back into their home, a trail of Christmas lights following after before the door quietly slipped shut.


	11. January 11 (Stars)

**AUTHOR: **givemelibertea

**January 11th, 2014 - Stars**

On the fourth night that Arthur found himself alone in bed, tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep without the familiar dip in the bed next to him, he decided that he'd had enough. Alfred's newly developed habit didn't bother in the beginning, but now it was just making their nights awkward. This habit of not coming to bed until late at night, coupled with the fact that Alfred never acted different during the day, drove Arthur to the point where he was done trying to puzzle things out.

He looked for Alfred in the basement first, but the video game console was turned off. He wasn't in the kitchen for a midnight snack either, or sleeping off some mysterious lovers' spat in the living room, and so by the time he'd done a tour of the entire house, Arthur was at a loss of where to look. Sighing, he let his gaze trail outside, at the clear January sky dotted with stars, and right underneath it all sat the man he was looking for, cross-legged on a folded tarp on top of a mound of snow, and completely unmoving.

He observed him for a moment, and then, before he knew it, his hands were mechanically preparing two mugs of tea. While the water boiled, he found himself slipping on a coat and a scarf, along with mittens and a hat, and the switch popped as he finished lacing up his second boot. A moment later, he had pulled the patio door open, and his steps were punctuated with the crunching of fresh snow as he made his way to Alfred's side with the mugs of tea.

"Any place for me?" he asked, carefully sitting down when Alfred soundlessly scooted over.

"You're not sleeping," Alfred commented softly, eyes not leaving the sky.

"Neither are you," Arthur replied without flinching, handing him a mug. "Here. Don't freeze."

"You know I don't like tea." Alfred accepted the steaming mug anyway and curiously sniffed the warm beverage. It warmed the bright red tip of his nose.

"Care to tell me why you've been here these past few nights?" Arthur immediately skipped to the point. "You're obviously not upset, so what is it?"

"I don't know," Alfred shrugged, returning his stare to the starry skies. "I guess I was worried."

"About?"

"I mean, look at us. It's a whole new year already, and I feel like I've done nothing constructive in the past year, and like I won't do anything constructive this year either. Time is flying by, and I feel like I'm not making anything of it."

"You're afraid," Arthur sighed, and looked up at the sky as well.

"Of having regrets later on, yeah," Alfred admitted. "I don't know. I feel like it's a stupid worry."

"So you came out here to freeze your toes off and glare at the stars for an answer?" Arthur blew on his tea and let the first burning sip shock his body awake.

"I came here to think." Alfred grumbled. "And definitely not be made fun of."

"I wasn't making fun of you," Arthur immediately returned, sincere. "I was wondering why you were out here."

"Maybe the stars have an answer for me," Alfred let out a weak smirk, nothing like his usual smiles. "Maybe they can tell me I'm not wrong."

There was a pause, and Alfred took a sip of burning tea with a wince.

"The stars won't tell you," Arthur shook his head finally, looking at his boyfriend's reddened cheeks, his twitching nose, furrowed brows and teary eyes full of uncertainty. "But I will."

Alfred didn't move when Arthur did, putting his mug down into the snow, and taking Alfred's shivering hands with his warm mittens instead.

"You're not the only one who thinks that their life is insignificant, but you and everyone else, you're all wrong. It's okay not to have your life together. You're young, you have time. The only roadblock you have now is the silly fear that you will never amount to anything."

"Arthur, don't try to make me feel better," Alfred rasped out, a cold wind whipping across his face in consequence. A tear escaped his eyes and burned his skin on its way down. "I don't feel right at all."

"Okay," Arthur simply replied, and in a rare initiative of affection, he slid his arms around Alfred's neck and drew him close. "It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to worry and be afraid. But take it one step at a time, and live without a fear of being meaningless." He took his face in his hands, and their gazes crossed when he leaned in to kiss him firmly, like a promise. He then touched their numbed foreheads together to let them both feel the other close. "Even if you think you don't have your life sorted out now, rest assured that you will in due time. Your life does have meaning, even if you yourself don't know what it is yet. You have the power. Your life is yours to control, and you definitely will make it meaningful. The day will come when you will know what you want to do with your life. Until then, you remain the most important person in mine."

He kissed him again, softer, and hummed when he felt Alfred's arms snake around his waist and pull him close. He smiled, and stayed still until Alfred released a sigh that was almost as heavy as the galaxy itself. However, when he drew back, Alfred was looking at him, his eyes black like the night and bright like the stars.


	12. January 12

**AUTHOR:** qichi

**January 12th, 2014**

The rain's driving hard against Arthur's vision, near-horizontal; he has to see his way by the faded white lines of the crossing and essentially… forgets to lifthis feet to get onto the sidewalk. The tip of his shoe catches against the curb, and he flounders forward.

As if it weren't enough that the weather seems to be conspiring against him—he's absolutely late, in a part of town he doesn't frequent, and the world's gone so wet and desaturated he can hardly tell where he is—someone leans to catch him as he half-falls. It's—kind. He supposes. He's not so unfriendly as to begrudge the effort. It's just…

"Whoa, there, you alright?" That. That, exactly. Arthur has always been fumbling with social interaction: it comes slow to him, uncomfortable. He's never known how to pull out of these traditions of social nicety.

Christ, but it's not like he intends to be rude. "Y-yeah," he manages, haltingly, "fine. I'm fine. Ah… thanks."

He expects to be done with this after that, but as he carries on down the sidewalk his savior is… going the same way. "Glad you're okay," he says, chirping enthusiastic optimism despite the storm. "Where you headed?"

Arthur glances up and to his left, trying to see at the face of the man tormenting him. …no, that's—that's not fair.

And he can hardly make much out, besides that he's smiling, with glasses and a hat.

"I don't…" Arthur begins, his predicament finally sinking in. "I don't know anymore. I had an appointment, a, a doctor's appointment, but god knows how many times I've gotten turned around." The sound of his own voice is thick with resignation; it's clear he's given up—and just as clear his beaming stranger will have none of it.

The man hurries ahead, ducking under the thin shelter of a Chinese restaurant's awning and gesturing for Arthur to join him, which he does, though not without walking through what feels like a solid wall of tepid rainwater running down the vinyl.

Arthur feels like a wet dog, soaked through as the man works the address of his doctor out of him—it takes a few slow seconds for the information to surface past his irritation at the rain—and types it into his phone. "Uh."

'Uh.' Arthur doesn't like the sound of that. "What? What is it?" He can't see the screen to read it.

"You, um, didn't get turned around as much as you think. That is… you've definitely been goin' the wrong way for a hell of a long time."

"Ah." Further comment escapes him. He's lost. He's late. "I should give them a ring and… you know, cancel," he mutters by way of explanation, already rooting for his cell. It hasn't got any of that fancy map nonsense. Just a phone.

He chides himself, silently, as the doctor's office ringtone begins to trill. Thatfancy map nonsense saved him more time and trouble, didn't it?

And… this man had really put himself out there for him. That was uncommon. Arthur bit his lip, waiting—

The receptionist snaps him out of his wandering thoughts. He explains, apologizes, cancels his appointment and makes a new one: same day of the week, same time, just… two weeks from now, and hopefully—hopefully—in better weather.

"Hey."

Er.

Arthur hadn't had the slightest clue how to wrap up this encounter but he figured he'd awkwardly thank the man then stumble back home through the storm. He wasn't—he hadn't expected to be spoken to first. "Ah, um, yes?"

"You're a total wreck," the man says, with an impossible smile that makes it into flirtation. Gears click in Arthur's head. "Wanna go somewhere with paper towels and coffee?"

Instinct raises up, No thank you, in the back of his throat. But Arthur stops it before it gets as far as his mouth. Because, because, because: what's the harm? why not get out of the rain? why not… thank him?

But, really, it's the thought of his smile that changes Arthur's no to yes: Yes, I'd like that, actually.

So they go.

It's exciting, electric in its novelty, how easy Arthur finds it to talk to him. Out of the rain and sitting across from each other at a table piled with lattes and brown napkins and all the comfortable ever-present details of every coffeeshop in the world, Arthur opens himself up and gets just as much back, starting with this, the most affecting: his name is Alfred.


	13. January 13

**ARTIST:** stephyhime

**(art can be found on the LJ or the tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR: **theswedishpointofview

**January 13th, 2014**

"…bloody pieces, you're supposed to fit together."

"Is there something troubling you, old man? You sound like you're planning a murder on someone!"

"I'm definitely considering it. This damn puzzle has a faulty picture. I should send the company a complaint for it! Stupid bastards."

"I don't think it's the picture's fault that the pieces don't fit. Look, here, turn it around… There! It fit now, didn't it? You just need a little bit more patience."

"And who are you to tell an old gentleman like me to have more patience? Isn't it you young people who have too little of it to begin with?"

"I don't know about that. I'm not very young either. And you've always had the patience of an angry pirate!"

"Who are you then? It sounds like you know of me, but I don't remember ever seeing your face before."

"… I'm Alfred. Alfred F. Jones. We used to serve together, in the Second World War. We- I looked up to you. You were sort of… my idol."

"Huh. I never knew of any fans from that time. It's nice to meet you then, Alfred. It must be quite the downer for you to see me like this, in a house for the elderly. If it weren't for my bad memory I wouldn't even be here."

"It's alright. You get kinda used to it, when all your old friends live like this. It's a nice place you've got here though. It's very pretty, with the lake outside."

"Yes. The weather is very nice, as well. We get a lot of sun here, for Britain."

"Britain? Artie, you don't live in Britain. This is America; you live in California."

"…"

"…"

"I don't know where this familiarity comes from, Mr Jones, but I certainly never said you could call me Artie. My name's Arthur Kirkland, nothing more, nothing less. And of course I live in Britain; I've lived here for my entire life. Why would I move to a completely different country? I have everything I could ever care about right here."

"… Y-Yeah, you're right. That would be stupid."

"…"

"…"

"What's wrong; you look upset. Was it something I said?"

"N-No, it's alright. I just got something in my eye, that's all. So, what kind of puzzle are you solving? What does it look like?"

"It looks like a hazard at the moment, and I can't make any sense of the pieces. This is supposed to help me with my memory, but all it does is making me feel frustrated."

"Is this the carton for it? It helps if you keep it close to look at, you know."

"Of course I know that, I'm not an idiot!"

"What did it do all the way over there then?"

"I… forget things. Sometimes. It comes with growing old."

"You're not that old. What are you, sixty-five, or something?"

"Isn't it rude to ask strangers about their age? Not that an American such as yourself would know, obnoxious fools."

"Hey! It's just you stingy Brits and your rules. Can't even eat hamburgers without knives and forks. And we're not strangers, remember? We fought together; you were my superior. It's only polite to exchange life-stories with each other."

"Alright, alright! I'll be sixty-eight next year. Git. And you? How old are you?"

"I just turned sixty-three in July. I share my birthday with the awesome US of A! I had the best fireworks ever; all raw entertainment and amazing skills. The only thing that could've made it better was if I had had my sweetheart there with me."

"Your sweetheart? That sounds downright cavities-inducing. Why wasn't she there with you then?"

"I- well, it's- He couldn't be there, because he's not very healthy these days. The fireworks would probably kill him, the old man!"

"…I'm sure he wouldn't mind watching them on the telly, at least."

"…"

"…"

"Artie, I miss you. You have no idea how lonely it gets without you at home."

"I'm sorry. I really am. But I keep forgetting everything. Not even the notes you write for me helps me anymore. Are you okay? Does it hurt very much?"

"Not all the time. Matthew keeps me company most of the time, and sometimes the others drop by. They're all very sweet. It still gets hard sometimes, around holidays and such. I drop by to visit you every time, but it's not always you realise I'm there. And you keep confusing me with the staff. I guess it's because of the accent. You never really got used to the American one."

"If it helps you feel better, I do understand that you're there, or that you have been there. I just can't talk, or do anything really, when I'm one of those moods."

"I understand, Arthur. It's okay. I just love you so much, and I would never be able to let you go, not even when you forget me. We fought too hard to be together just for it to end like this. It's not fair."

"Nothing is ever fair, love. This is just the way things are. I'm sorry."

"…"

"Please don't cry, Alfred. Come here and let us appreciate the moment. They're too few to be wasted with tears."

"…I love you, Arthur. I love you; I always will."

"And I love you, Alfred. More than life itself."

"…"

"…"

"Jones."

"…"

"Jones. I know reality is difficult to handle for a rookie like you, but I didn't request for you to be my assistant just to see you cry. Now clear my table like I told you to, and keep the tears away in the future. They don't belong in this war."

"O-Of course. I'm sorry sir. I'll be going then."

"…"

"Bye, Artie. I love you."


	14. January 14

**AUTHOR: **qichi

**January 14th, 2014**

The teacher's being unbearably wrong about Gatsby, today, so Arthur feels excused in letting his thoughts wander from misguided analysis to something a little less infuriating.

It involves letting his eyes wander across the array of desks too—to a boy one row ahead and two rows over.

Arthur's been… fixated, lately.

His notebook has stayed blissfully free of hearts or drawings of his crush's face, and thank god that he isn't that far gone. But he does look, when he can—and he can now, so he is—and Alfred's as oblivious as ever, deeply focused on everything the boring old man at the front of the room says about the American dream.

God, Alfred's tail _wags_ when the teacher says something—he isn't quite listening—about jazz music and car crashes. Arthur thinks he can forgive the literary disagreement if it means he gets to see that more often.

Alfred's one of a scattered handful of them in this school, three or four percent of the student population. People otherwise normal, but with the ears and tail of a dog, better senses of smell, and their own specialized cafeteria meal plans.

They're made fun of as often as they're adored. Arthur just so happens to fall on one end of that spectrum rather than the other.

Not, ah, not that he doesn't tease, but he means it playfully, he means it—as a way of getting closer to Alfred.

He _means_ to finally ask Alfred out, sometime soon, with hopes that it won't go quite as badly as in the book they're reading. It's only that he's not sure how.

Arthur turns back to his notebook to at least try looking like a decent student. The tip of his pencil hovers just an inch over the page, tracing hearts into the air.

He'll figure something out.


	15. January 15 (Existent)

**AUTHOR:** Kelbora/General Kitty Girl

**January 15, 2014**

**~Existent~**

Comfortable. It was a simple word that he had never much cared for, but perhaps the best word for describing his present life. He could be honest in saying he had lived in both rags and riches over his many years, but what he had now was something he hadn't experienced before. World affairs, politics, and even the current social unrest plaguing his population aside, there was a kind of unspoken contentment when lying here…and it was only ever here.

Four unremarkable walls in an unremarkable room, furnished with items that had been chosen more so for necessity than sentiment. The pine dresser, unmatching mahogany bedside tables, and the wooden desk hidden beneath mounds of unsorted paperwork, accompanied by a chair that functioned more like a coat rack; it was all just so…forgettable. Even the bed, adorned with nothing but simple linens and no decoration to speak of, was just another requisite for the makings of a bedroom.

But it was his bedroom, _their_ bedroom when travels abroad were possible. They were only two people who had ever slept in this room and this bed. The only people who ever used these sheets or hid personal items in the drawers of the bedside tables, and the only people who walked barefoot on the carpet or stored clothes in the dresser and over the chair. The curtains over the windows were only ever opened or closed by their hands, just as the door was never locked unless they willed it. They were the only forces with the power to alter anything in this place. It was a sanctuary beyond a world they couldn't control…a world Arthur, at least, had tried to control lifetimes ago only to discover how powerless he really was.

However, in this room…in this refuge there were no expectations or surprises. There were no enemies to fight and no allies to impress. There was only a simple room with simple fixtures, a place for everything and everything in its place. There was a smell to it that never changed; the scent of Alfred's same old detergent and same shampoo, with his same aftershave he never needed but still used. In the morning the smell was all over him and there was almost always a subtle soreness between his legs…but a quiet pleasure in the memories of what caused it.

Even the few mornings he woke without the ache, the smell and memories of the night before were never disappointing.

A part of him resented such happiness in this temporary domestication, as it only ever happened the few times of the year he came to visit Alfred in America. From an outcaste heir of Rome and whipping boy of Europe, he had grown into a global terror, an empire…and now this? Could anyone have predicted a former crusader and privateer would hang up his vengeance and weapons for this intermittent commonplace life? He had spent most of his days as one of the doubters and sometimes the lingering skepticism of this reality gnawed his thoughts. Sometimes when he lied beneath Alfred he felt the deep seeded urge to fight and conquer again. Sometimes he even gave into the compulsions, but never once had the man he dominated resented him for it.

In a way…this room had domesticated Alfred too. His once rambunctious young lad, his wild and eventually rebellious child, was now an independent world power and his strongest ally. His man had become something great and terrifying, just as he had been once, and made him both weary and proud.

It was funny, but everywhere other than this room his Alfred was America. Never once beyond the threshold had either of them ever addressed the other by their national name; they were simply Alfred and Arthur, my love and my darling, good morning and good night…

Gazing absently at this precious yet unremarkable room, stroking one of the arms around him and listening to Alfred's even breaths, he was at peace. In the few minutes before Alfred would wake, he could reflect upon all of these things and feel satisfied. It wasn't ever for more than a few days at a time but after so long without moments like this…it was enough.

He just wanted to enjoy being home…a little while longer.

**~Fin~**


	16. January 16 (Expectations)

**Artist:** fauxreblogsthings

**(art can be seen at the Tumblr or the LJ under this URL)**

**Author:** sweetayako15

**January 16th, 2014 - Expectations**

Alfred walked through the door, tired and stressed. He had been working overtime for the past 3 months, and it was taking its toll on him. But he knew that his boyfriend, Arthur, wanted to go England to see his family that coming summer, and the only way it was going to happen was if Alfred and he both worked hard and saved up. Alfred knew Arthur was hard to impress, but this would definitely do the trick when he swept him off his feet in a nice fancy hotel in England after a 5-star dinner and into the bedroom with silken sheets on the bed…

Alfred sighed as walked into the kitchen, dropping his briefcase on the table before yanking his tie off and dropping it next to briefcase. He went to go rub his shoulder, but before he could reach it another pair of hands appeared on top of his own. Turning around he looked into those vibrate green eyes that he fell in love with all those years ago.

"Alfred," He spoke softly, "You're pushing yourself to hard,"

"No I'm not, babe. I can deal with it if it means seeing you happy," Alfred gave a weak smile as those delicate, feminine fingers pressed into his shoulders to massage the tense muscles.

"Al, I'm happy as long as you're happy. And quite frankly, you don't seem very happy as of late," Arthur stated as he pulled his hands away to walk around in front of the other, "We can wait till another time to go see my family, they're not all that great anyway," He kissed Alfred's lips, "And besides, I loved you when we both poor college kids. What makes you think taking me or not taking me to some place I've spent half of my life at will make me love you any more or any less?"


	17. January 17

January 17th, 2014

**ARTIST:** gwyndor

(art can be seen on the LJ or the tumblr under this URL)

**AUTHOR:** eeveespirit

**January 17th, 2014**

It's snowing and winter has fallen. There's really nothing to do. Nothing is growing. And if Arthur thinks about it, nothing is growing between him and Alfred.

It's not as if he isn't obvious enough. Everyone knows that Arthur is in love with Alfred. If you look into those emerald eyes, you can almost see hearts in his eyes every time he looks at Alfred. There are all of the occasional back rubs. And who doesn't want to look at Arthur's ass every time he bends down to pick up his pen?

But, all things grow, even after a withering winter. Alfred and Arthur's relationship will grow. Alfred is paying attention of course. He notices the way Arthur's ass sways as he walks. He loves Arthur. However, Arthur is blinded by his misery and the cold that overpowers the growth of new things.

Arthur and Alfred do love each other. They just don't know it and don't want to admit it just yet. When the winter has passed and spring has come, their relationship will grow just as fast as new life appears.


	18. January 18

**ARTIST: **fauxreblogsthings

**(art can be found at the LJ or the Tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** Kelbora/General Kitty Girl

**January 18, 2014**

**~One~**

Blood was so fascinating to him. The liquid genetic memory that sustained life continued pouring out of him and all he could do was stare in wonder. It was so warm, this crimson sap of humanity…it could keep a human body going for decades and power the endless complexities of its mind. For a being sustained on the cast off sorrows and pains of others, essentially the fumes of mankind's despair…it was so wonderful to finally have substance. To be thawed without needing the touch of hellfire against his skin.

This death was so…beautiful.

"If only you had obeyed the man could have been spared, you selfish_monster_!"

His glacier blue eyes glowed with the power of his demonic-spirit so close to the surface of this mortal shell, and looked up to behold the man whose sword kept him staked to the base of the dais. The power of heavenly steel kept him trapped within the body he'd possessed to walk the earth…though it would also take the life of his vessel in turn. It was trivial, really.

Though the furious seraph, the underling of St. Michael before him, was not so inconsequential.

However much the angel continued to lash him with his angry words, the ensnared demon decided to spend his last moments marveling his executioner. His hair looked as though his halo had turned to spun silk above his head to crown such a flawless face. His eyes were the color of life's natural zenith, the spring the demon had actually absconded from hell to appreciate. Autumn fell in a myriad of gold and yellow over his body, as though God Himself had taken the season and fashioned earthly armor to shelter His beloved soldier. His skin was winter, white like Christmas snow and tinged with the Yule sunrise that colored him red with emotion.

It was ironic to him that the embodiment of the all he'd ever longed to see in existence was in this angel. The dream he'd yearned to live since waking beneath the Devil's altar; to be human and live beneath a sky and not a ceiling of earth, to see the world ever changing around him, while God's breathes and tears created _sensation_ upon his skin…

It was all he wanted, it was everything to him…and now his last chance was growing cold at the feet of a weeping crucifix in Boston.

Everything was quiet before he realized his angel was kneeling over him, his hands on the hilt of the sword in his gut and eyes locked onto his…faltering.

"You're crying," he stated, as though afraid of his own words voicing something blasphemous.

The demon lifted a bloodstained hand from his wound to his face and felt evidence of this truth. Tears were indeed falling and he smiled, "I've…always wondered what that would be like."

The angel stilled again and the demon felt the other's indecision as tangibly as his body heat, which was so warm…his own dying body ached for it. "You're a demon…demons don't cry. Who are you?"

_Who are you_?

_I wish I knew_…

Darkening blue eyes found spring again and all at once he calmed and stared once more in wonder.

God so loved His angels that He gave them flesh when performing His will on earth. This body before him was beautiful, strong…and mortal…

The Devil so hated this world he gave his demons the power to invade and corrupt life. Any life.

This life.

His hand covered in tears and blood, his muscles straining to reach out and touch that flawless face (which surprisingly did not pull away) rested against the other's cheek and for the first time in his life…there was peace.

And a jealousy that would cower the Devil himself.

"I am you."

Claws erupted from his once human nails and latched into that angelic skin. The seraph gasped then screamed, but not even the burning holy water he bled could change the demon's course, as he jerked the angel forward into a searing kiss. The demon's free hand arrested the other's arm but not before the sword was wretched from his mortal vessel and repositioned to stab his heart.

The blade never finished its purpose, as the angel was suddenly paralyzed – and no longer alone in its own mind.

The seraph shrieked and fell onto his back, crying out with only his echoes in the vaulted ceiling above to respond. He convulsed and seized, tearing at his own skin and demanding that this terrible darkness invading his soul leave. He could feel inhuman hands wrapping around his heart, digging talons into the muscle and now controlling each beat on a whim. It was through these means that he felt himself growing weaker and weaker. He could hear the beats in his head becoming lethargic…and finally stopping.

He stared unseeingly up at the night sky through stained glass…stagnant…and cold.

The first thump was faint; the second was just as so…then a third and soon a steady succession. His eyes blinked once…twice…then opened fully and he could see St. Peter's likeness staring back. The church was so quiet but for his heart beat and soon the clink of his armor, as he pushed himself up and sat back on his haunches. He looked at his hands, turning them over and back, seeing them barely soiled and…so much smaller than his last.

As he stood, he looked down at his growing shadow in the candlelight and a smile spread across his face.

"Arthur…that's your name, right?" he whispered to the darkness and beheld the twisted hybrid of his new feathered silhouette. "We're beautiful together, you and I…the horns your halo rests upon look just right for you."

**~Fin~**


	19. January 19

**AUTHOR:**libertea-rose

**January 19th, 2014 - Cold**

"Bloody hell, it's f-f-freezing!" A certain grumbling voice came from behind America, with a poorly hidden shiver upon stepping outside after one seemingly endless meeting. "Why on earth couldn't you have held the conference in Florida or somewhere?"

"Well, D.C. is my capital but you're more than welcome to take a quick trip down to Florida any time you like…" The suggestive eyebrow wiggle accompanying this statement earned America a sharp British elbow in his abdomen.

"You know that was not what I meant, idiot. I was simply stating that it would be warmer in Florida at this time of year, considerably more so than this arctic city, at least."

"Here, if you're that cold, you can have my jacket" America offered, already undoing the zipper.

"No! It's fine; I'm not all that cold anyway."

"But you just said! And that suit jacket can't be warm at all!"

"I'm just fine in my suit, thank you very much. Besides, won't you be cold?"

"Nonsense! Heroes don't feel the cold!" The self-appointed hero himself proclaimed, shrugging his jacket off. It took a bit of a tussle between the two nations but eventually America's superior strength triumphed and England found himself with the downy material draped over his head.

"Fine then," He grumbled, wriggling into the jacket as the soft temptation of the cosy, America-scented, fur-lined fabric inevitably won out over his pride. "If it makes you happy."

"It does~" America hummed, barely concealing his reaction as the harsh wind blew daggers that cut straight through the cloth of his own suit. There were only a few blocks to walk down before they reached his Washington home where they would both be staying; he could withstand the weather without a jacket until then. Of course, a hero like himself could easily withstand the sub-zero temperatures of the North Pole if he had to all for the sake of his 'damsel in distress'. (Not that America would ever refer to England as his 'damsel'. At least not aloud; he didn't have a death wish.)

…

"I thought heroes didn't get cold," England commented smugly, observing as America suppressed another shudder following a particularly fierce blast of the frigid January air.

"Th-they don't."

"So, then I suppose you're just shivering and rubbing your arms for the sake of it, hm?"

"I-I'm not!"

"You idiot, come here," Reluctantly stripping the snug layer off his shoulders, England offered the jacket back to America who insistently pushed it away.

"Nuh-uh! I'm not letting my boyfriend freeze to death!"

"Well, I am not going to let my boyfriend freeze to death, either! Especially when I'm the reason he isn't wearing his jacket!"

"Then I guess neither of us are going to wear it, then!"

…

"This is so stupid," England sighed after a moment of silence, trailing the jacket across the paving slabs. "All this fuss over a jacket…"

"Then how about a compromise?"

"A compromise?" England repeated, brows furrowed; he hadn't missed the mischievous glint in America's eyes.

"Sure, come 'ere." Warily, the smaller nation took a step towards the taller who proceeded to take the jacket, carefully threading England's left arm through one of the jacket's sleeves and snagging his own right through the other. Sneaking his free arm around England's waist, America pulled them as close together as physically possible.

"You fool," England fidgeted a bit at the closeness. "We must look a right spectacle."

"Who cares? There's no one around to see us, 'sides, isn't it much warmer like this?"

"Mmm… much warmer." England agreed, relaxing into America's side.

The two continued onwards down the empty streets as the first few flakes of snow began to coat grey concrete with a damp white powder. But, even as the snow flurry began to encompass their surroundings and the wind continued to blizzard, neither of them complained; they simply pulled a warm body closer, toasty in each other's embrace.


	20. January 20

**author: americarunsoneyebrows**

Alfred was worried about stable time loops and Arthur was worried about what he was doing wrong.

Their high school was large. It was so large, in fact, that people sometimes had trouble making friends. Various ideas for helping students meet one another had been tossed about, but none had met with much success. In desperation, the principal herself had concocted a plan. Interest Tables had been the result.

Interest Tables were lunchroom tables featuring large white flags with a certain "interest" printed on them. There were all sorts of interest tables. Anyone could start one, so long as he or she spoke with a teacher or faculty member first. The tables were created and disbanded according to, well, interest, and attendance. Some tables had more than ten members. Others had a whopping two. Unofficial, unapproved tables would sometimes spring up when somebody had a sharpie. Prussia was sitting under a "Nice Bums" flag today.

Arthur was sitting under the sci-fi flag.

He'd been under the cooking flag first, hoping to learn something useful, but Francis had kicked him out after the incident with the crème brulee. He'd headed to the aptly titled "Boats!" table next, but Antonio destroyed his battleship one too many times, and he'd had to flee. Finally, he'd ended up at the history table, and that's where he found him.

Alfred F. Jones had a Southern accent, a slightly crooked nose and a very crooked smile. He liked trains, planes, and automobiles. He believed in ghosts, aliens, government conspiracies, time travel and Santa. He did not believe in homeopathic medicine. He knew more about planes than anyone had ever known about anything.

Arthur was a little in love with him.

The history table had been a good one, and Arthur was filled with a nostalgic longing for it. He'd fit in there. All of the other nerds had accepted him, and had been thrilled with his knowledge of World War II. Alfred had shined there, as he did everywhere, and Arthur had been able to _talk_ to him. They'd discussed the liberation of France and the Pacific War. They'd talked about whether or not _Catch-22_ was a good book. They'd discussed the proper way to pet a grumpy cat.

Arthur would have been happy staying at the history table forever. Unfortunately, Alfred didn't seem to be happy anywhere.

Arthur had arrived at the history table one day, only to find that Alfred had moved four tables down to the computers table. The computers table was a daunting and solemn place which knew no laughter, no chatter and no sound at all, save for the clack of the keyboards. Alfred did not fit in there. Arthur did not fit in there, but he followed Alfred there nonetheless.

The next day Alfred had tried the video games table. This had been a great success for the young man, who soon impressed everyone with his impeccable gaming skill. Even Arthur was a little awed by it. But all that attention and admiration wasn't enough, and Alfred soon moved on—this time, to the sci-fi table.

The sci-fi table was the worst of them all.

No one at the sci-fi table liked Arthur. They thought he did not know anything about sci-fi, and they were absolutely right. They were also possessed by some terrible and mean demon that made them intensely despise _Doctor Who_, which was the only sci-fi program Arthur knew anything about. Anytime he mentioned it, however, he was rudely directed toward the Whovian table, which met beside the pillar that had been decorated as a TARDIS.

The Doctor Who table had tea, biscuits and a plush Dalek. But it did not have an Alfred.

And it was at the sci-fi table, in the middle of a heated discussion of the improper time travel in the film _Looper_, that Arthur realized every interest table might as well be titled Alfred, and that was magnificently unhealthy.

But then, Alfred excused himself, tossed his trash into the bin, and headed out of the lunchroom.

There was a silence that came to blanket the sci-fi table, and somewhere, in the distance, Arthur swore he heard a keyboard clacking. He told himself he wouldn't move, that following Alfred, even now, was utterly ridiculous. He told himself that the boy wasn't interested in him, couldn't see him, had barely spoken to him since the history table. He told himself he was pathetic and weird and my god, wasn't that a lovely girl at the literature table?

He told himself all that, and the hostile stares of the sci-fi nerds poked into him from all round, and he quietly excused himself and followed Alfred out of the lunchroom.

The other boy wasn't hard to find. He was halfway between the cafeteria and the main hall, leaning on a post and staring at nothing. Arthur approached him very quietly. It was very cold outside.

"Is everything alright?"

Alfred didn't look startled and he didn't jump, but he did close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were zeroed in on Arthur in a way he'd never seen. Alfred looked very serious. Arthur didn't make any sound.

"You don't like sci-fi, do you?"

Arthur did not lie. He shook his head.

"You don't like video games either. You _really_ don't like computers."

"Well I- I didn't like the computer _table_ is all. Computers are perfectly fine."

"Dude, don't even. You use IE."

Arthur didn't know what that meant, but he was going to retort, when Alfred interrupted again.

"If you didn't like the table, why were you there?"

Arthur clammed up at that. He held his breath. He watched Alfred's escape through his nose in a little fog of condensation.

"I like you."

Arthur hadn't said it. He'd wanted to say it, but he hadn't.

Alfred grinned his crooked grin.

The next day, a new interest table was created. Under a red, white and blue homemade flag sat two boys, one with a smile and the other with a blush.

The flag said "Arthur."


	21. January 21 (Wings)

**AUTHOR:** faesphinx

**January 21st, 2014 - Wings**

The fledgling curled its still-downy wings around itself, trying to hide and stay warm in the bitter January cold. The winds tore at him, and he tried to get lower in the dead corn, hoping the long stalks would shield him more. This was his nest. His own nest. He was his own flock. It had been that way for ever and ever and ever, as far back as he could remember.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

Hearing the rustling of someone pushing through the rough plant life of the field over the shrieking, whistling wind, he pressed himself nearly flat. Just because he was lonely didn't mean that he wanted others to find him. Others pushed, threw rocks, pulled feathers, and cried 'demon!' when he had tried to come near. He couldn't entirely blame them; they had no wings. It must have hurt when they were pulled off.

"Ah, there you are," said a voice, and leathery hands touched one golden wing. The fledgling flinched, willing himself smaller, flatter, and silent.

"Hush, little one," the voice said again, stroking gently, "Hush. I saw you from above. Your camouflage is decent- instinctive, I'm sure- but it could be better. Open up, now."

Trembling, the fledgling parted his defenses, and looked up with bright blue eyes. It was a man- a man like him, with glossy black feathers on his wings, and along his sharp cheekbones, and over the arch of his heavy brows. His eyes were bright green, made almost too-green by his dark feathers, and his white skin like snow, and the wintery sunlight of his hair. They were the greenest thing that the fledgling had seen in a long time, and green meant alive. Green meant warm and food. Green was good.

With a sharp cry, he launched himself at the man, clinging close to him and babbling in croons and trills and squawks.

"Shh, shh, there…" the man said, gently lifting the fledgling into his arms, "My, you survived all on your own out here? Well, no more."

The green proved right, the man was warm. The fledgling pressed his little, shaking body against it. His skin chaffed against the thick wool of the man's clothes, and the man nuzzled his hair.

"Shh…" he said again, "Come. We'll take you back to my nest- a proper nest- and get you some clothing and food. Would you like that, my little fledgling? To be in my flock? Look at you, you can't even speak the common tongue yet. No doubt you're still grounded. Hush, now…"

The fledgling was so concerned with absorbing the man's warmth, that he hadn't even noticed that they were moving. Walking. The man had wrapped his wings around them, and it was dark as night, but so much warmer. The fledgling crooned softly, his own wings still drawn tight against him.

"You'll need a name, of course," the man was saying as they left the fields behind. Somehow his steps seemed like they were crossing distances much to big for his stride. "Something strong, for you must be to have survived out here on your own. King of your own, untamed domain. Shall we call you Alfred? I think it suits you."

The fledgling- Alfred- nodded. Anything. Anything so long as he could stop shivering and have something to eat.

"Alfred it is, then. Well, Alfred, I am Arthur. And you are going to be my sweet little fledgling."

They were stepping into somewhere much warmer, now. Alfred heard the clunk of a lock opening, and the click of it closing behind them. Arthur unfurled his wings, and brought them towards the fire.

"Here, get warm," he instructed, setting Alfred down on the hearth rug. The fledgling's skin was a wind-bitten pink, and turned almost scarlet at the sudden heat. He cried out, sure that he would burn- for fires meant burning and destruction and black forests and fields- and tried to scramble back towards the door, but firm hands held him still.

"Get warm," Arthur repeated, his hands rubbing Alfred's arms and hands, "I know it stings, but it will get better. I'm not trying to hurt you."

Deft fingers massaged nearly frostbitten skin, coaxing the red to rise and then fade as Alfred's body settled on a healthier temperature. His trembling eased, until it was no more than the occasional shiver. Satisfied, Arthur sat back with a smile, only to find the fledgling scurrying back into his lap.

"You need clothes, and food, next," he said, lifting Alfred with ease and retreating towards his set of rooms, thankful that he had prepared winter clothing for the fledgling he had spent a fortnight trying to find. He swaddled the little one in a thick wool gown, with flannel smalls, and stockings he'd knit himself. When that was finished, the maids had readied supper and tea for the pair of them, and retreated to their quarters.

Alfred grabbed for the vegetation and meat floating in the broth with both hands, only to cry out when Arthur held him back.

"No," he said sternly, "We mustn't grab."

He lightly bounced the fledgling in his lap, then picked up a spoon, and offered some broth and carrot to him.

"Eat," he instructed, and the fledgling obeyed. Such a good boy. Arthur felt his whole body warm tenfold as they fulfilled their roles.

Three bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread were finished off in that manner. When they were finished, Alfred was dozing on Arthur's lap, a tiny smile on his face.

"There's a lad…" Arthur murmured, running a hand over the fledgling's stomach to help him digest. He'd expected him to be hungry, of course, but not that hungry. Hadn't the people left him offerings to sustain him? This New World was overly strange, and ignorant.

"Shall we to bed, now?" he asked, and Alfred cooed and squawked in the old way, bright eyes full of concern.

"I will eat when you are asleep," he promised, "It is my duty to see that you are cared for."

Alfred nodded, then lay his head against Arthur's chest. It was only a matter of moments before he was fast asleep. Arthur carried him to his quarters, laying him down in the large, soft nest he had made. He would show the fledgling how to make his own, of course, but there were so many more important things right now.

Besides, he'd been a murder of one for so long. It was nice to have something to protect, curled up in his nest.


	22. January 22

**AUTHOR:** cantharidindeath

**January 22nd, 2014**

There was something about England in his vulnerable states, rare and adorable as they were, that endeared him to America. The fact that the ice-cold island nation was willing to show America his weaknesses and trusted him not to exploit them even though he'd done so before and as another nation had a certain likelihood of doing so touched him, and often this would result in the loudmouthed nation becoming rather clingy.

So when America walked into his bedroom one day after work and found his boyfriend in his bedroom (visiting for a business trip) sobbing quietly into the bed, he automatically shrugged off his jacket and draped it around the other before pulling England into his arms. He rocked him slightly, humming out occasional consoling phrases, digging his fingers into the leather and letting his British lover soak the shoulder of his t-shirt. The two sat in quiet companionship for a while, England's crying gradually slowing, before finally quieting to the occasional whimper. America pulled back slightly, finally deciding his lover was emotionally ready to talk to him without re-bursting into tears.

"What's wrong, babe?" Patting England's back, America propped both of them up onto the bed's headboard. The emerald-eyed gentleman coughed and hiccupped, sniffing and wiping at his eyes to clear his airway and pretend he was perfectly fine, thank you very much.

"…Nothing much. Just watched a movie while you were gone…" England stared down pathetically at a spot on the bed, giving a small cough and pulling the jacket further onto his shoulder. The overall picture prompted America to pull him into a hug again.

"A movie, hm?" The nation smiled as England sunk further into his shoulder, sucking in a deep breath of air and experimentally breathing out through his nose. It was still stuffed, judging by the light whistling noise (that made both nations chuckle lightly).

"It was a sad movie," England mumbled, giving his own weak hums in reply to America's. It was grudging confession, but it at least gave a reason to England's misery.

"So you watched it and it made you this sad? Must have been a really good movie." Stroking his back, America gave a soft smile as England nodded and stretched the jacket onto both of their shoulders and pushed them back onto the bed.

"It wasn't. It was crappy and the characters had no depth and the plot was predictable and everything was about the damned love triangle and the special effects could have been made in Photoshop." England gave a weak glare as America shot him an incredulous smirk and eyebrow raise. "…Well, the effects were okay. But the characters were shit and the plot was shit and the damned love triangle was also still shit."

"Then why are you so broken up about it?" America grinned lightly. When England mumbled an ambiguous answer, he continued. "I've just bought it, so I haven't had time to take a look."

"…The ending was really sad and the main character ended up alone because she neglected her two love interests for some shit reason and it was really depressing." It was less than a mumble, but America heard it.

"But why would that—oh." It was a mild suspicion, but it made America look down at the gold-spun hair in his arms with a fond mixture of tenderness and slight frustration. "Did you think about us? Did you get worried?"

"Mmm…know I can be a bit… but…" Burying himself deeper into the shoulder, England took one last sniffle to clear his nose.

"Sorry, didn't catch that." America grinned, pulling back so the two could face each other. England looked up at him through his eyelashes, dark green eyes glinting dimly in the moonlight.

"I said, it's just that…we're having a long distance relationship…and I know I can be a bit closed…but I still don't want us to end up like that." The confession was clearly outside of England's comfort zone, and he pouted and lowered his eyes.

America stared for a second before his face melted into an exasperated smile, leaning backwards. "Is that what you're worried about?"

"It's a big deal to me, okay?!" Crossing his arms angrily, England let out a huff of breath as his eyebrows knitted in the middle of his forehead. "I—I'm perfectly happy in our current…relationship, and I'd rather it not be compromised by something!"

Grinning widely, the American pounced on his boyfriend, ignoring his indignant yelp as he wrapped his arms around the lithe body and giving him a loud kiss on the cheek. "Aw, Artie, it's okay! We've all got our work, but I think your fake insults and blushiness and shit are really cute. I'm not gonna leave you over something stupid like that!"

"You fucking idiot, did I ever say I—I mean—don't just assume that—"

Amid the sputtering protests, the American pulled away and gave his boyfriend a quick peck, silencing him. As the British man blushed profusely and continued to mumble his excuses, the American tapped him on the cheek, quieting him and catching his attention. At the questioning look, the boisterous American nation grinned.

"Love you, Arthur."

"…I love you too, you big oaf." Face staining red once again, England leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek before burying his face into his shoulder and mumbling a litany of excuses for his previous breakdown. The American simply nodded and smiled as he rested his chin on the dip in England's collar bone.

At times it was difficult to take the multiple bunches to the shoulder and the thick wave of insults, but, as always, the moments like these made it entirely worth it.


	23. January 23 (Symphony of Sound)

**AUTHOR:** The Devils Song

**January 23rd, 2014 - Symphony of Sound**

"Let's go to the place where everything's beautiful."

Arthur rolled over in bed to look at his strange new roommate. He'd had the room in the orphanage all to himself for the better part of nine years, until recently the new kid had been dropped off. Alfred Jones. He didn't talk much, and he hadn't told anyone why he was here, but sometimes late at night he would say the strangest things.

"Where's that then?" he asked.

Alfred turned to look at him from across the room with unseeing eyes. Even with the milky white pupils, they were still the most stunning right blue Arthur had ever seen. "It's far, faaaar away from here, where only the brave dare go."

Arthur frowned. "If it's such a scary place then why is it so beautiful?"

"Because, Arthur, it just is! It's the Good Place."

"Why is it so good?"

A dreamy smile took over his face. "It's where no one ever gets punished. No one gets yelled at, no one disappears, and when you wake up in the morning you can stay in bed as looong as you want." His smile faded a bit at the edges. "Everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts."

"Does it hurt that you can't see?" There was a stunned silence from the other boy.

Arthur hurriedly sat up, gesticulating wildly. "Oh, I'm so sorry that was terribly rude of me! I didn't mean to offend you, it just came out!" He paused, hearing the sounds the other boy was making. "Alfred, are you … laughing? What, what's so funny?"

Alfred just laughed harder, slamming a hand down on the bed. He sat up, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. "Nothing, nothing! No one's ever asked like that before."

He chuckled a little bit more before settling down. "No, it doesn't hurt. Wanna know why?"

"Why?"

The other boy waved his hand, beckoning him closer. Arthur got off of his bed and hopped onto Alfred's, sitting with crossed legs in front of him. Alfred reached out a hand and placed a finger on Arthur's lips. "Say something."

Arthur frowned. "Umm … Cat?"

"There it is!" Alfred exclaimed, throwing his hands up and leaning forward so quickly that Arthur had to fall back and steady himself with his hands.

He spluttered a bit before talking. "There what is?"

Alfred grinned and dropped his voice, leaning forward as if telling a very important secret. "Sound. The beauty's in the sound." He then kicked at Arthur before lying back in his bed. "Now go to sleep! Mr Vargas is gonna hear us and if we don't stop talking."

Moving back over to his own bed and getting into the covers, Arthur couldn't help but think, not for the first time, how strange his roommate was. Just as he was drifting off, he heard Alfred whisper once more.

"Hey, Arthur? We're friends, right?"

Arthur smiled to himself. Yeah, he was pretty weird, but having a friend sounded nice. "Of course."


	24. January 24 (Belly Laugh Day)

January 24th, 2014

**ARTIST:** carriecmoney

**(art can be found at the LJ or the Tumblr under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** bubblelounge

**January 24th, 2014 - Belly Laugh Day**

Alfred collects laughter like memories, hoards wry chuckles and smothered giggles like treasures, marks them all on his secret map of Arthur. He knows the way Arthur's throat moves when they're tangled up beneath the sheets and he's running his fingers over Arthur's ribs just to make him squirm and choke out breathless laughter. Alfred's memorized the crinkled corners of Arthur's eyes in the aftermath of telling a good joke and keeps tabs on the way his lips twitch and his cheeks flush when a sly comment is on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to make the entire room (or Alfred alone) bow to the wonder of his wit.

Alfred loves the sound of Arthur's stifled laughter of inopportune moments, the little hints of impropriety hidden behind the back of a hand or shared in a hushed whisper with Alfred, who's always accepting of all things inappropriate. He loves the sharp, barked laughter that Arthur enjoys more than he should when he's dismissing something he finds utterly preposterous. He loves the sleepy, murmured laughter of late night and early morning. He loves the rough, gasping laughter that slips from Arthur's mouth and over Alfred's tongue, loves the way it tastes and sounds and feels when Arthur's in his arms.

But more than anything, Alfred loves to the way Arthur breaks around a belly laugh, the way it ripples up from the deepest part inside of him until he's doubled over and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, all flushed and gasping for breath because the happiness is just that good. And when he's the one who's made Arthur laugh that loud and that long, when he's the one responsible for Arthur's mile-wide smile and shining eyes, Alfred can't keep the joy from bubbling right up from his heart. He loves the secret of Arthur's quiet amusement, the whip-crack of his wit, but Alfred's thinks he'll never love anything more than when they're both laughing hard enough to bring down the house.

Alfred has a map of Arthur's laugh, knows it almost as well as he knows his own. Alfred keeps the map close to his heart and every day follows the sweet and true echo of Arthur's laughter.


	25. January 25

**AUTHOR:**justeastofeccentric

**January 25th, 2014**

Finger tips and toes and hands that gripped and stroked. The world was touch, the feel of fingers stroking skin and breath ghosting on that hand.

Finger tips and toes and hands that held close and pushed away. My world was touch, the brushing of fingers against his cheek, the light kiss he pressed to my knuckles.

It may have been snowing outside but it was warm and dry inside.

Finger tips and hands that pulled me in and pushed me away. Little smiles one minute and tears the next.

Arthur was special.

Arthur was different.

He didn't always understand. But that was okay.

He was uptight and grumpy and witty and so very normal. At least that's what he seemed like; but under all the sarcasm and pristine dress shirts, he was different. He was special.

But that was okay. And I loved him anyway.

Finger tips and little giggles that turned to fists and yelling, it was okay. Pressing my lips to his, he always melted into it, and that's how I knew.

Under the confusion and lust and frustration and desperate need to try, I knew he loved me.

And I loved him. I loved his every smile and laugh and quirk and I loved all the things he did. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way his hand trailed down my forearm in affection. The way his finger tips lingered on my arm or forehead or cheek.

Finger tips…

Finger tips and soft hands and pleasantly pink cheeks, flushed in the cold air.

Finger tips and toes and clever, delicate hands that created intricate designs into whatever fabric he chose. Finger tips and toes and perpetually cold hands that wormed their way into mine.

It was cold outside, but it was warm inside and I pulled him close to me and wrapped us in a cocoon of blankets. I kissed his forehead and he cupped my cheek fondly. I took his hand in mine and I kissed it.

I kissed each finger tip, each knuckle and his palm. I leaned forward, holding his hand to my chest and I kissed his cheek.

He whispered my name and I kissed him on his lips.

He melted into it, and I knew.


	26. January 26

**AUTHOR:**sweetayako15

**January 26th, 2014 - Your Song**

_"It's a little bit funny this feeling inside._

_I'm not one of those who can easily hide._

_I don't have much money but boy if I did,_

_I'd buy a big house where we both could live"_

As Alfred's fingers diligently pressed each key and his mouth moved to produce the lyrics of the song, his eyes drifted towards the dance floor as he watched the new couple dance awkwardly with each other. He smiled and as he lifted his head he saw both Francis and his wife Jeanne come up onto the stage. Francis opened the large wooden case from before, and the pair worked to move the large golden harp from its confinements. Next, the man grabbed a smaller, black case and from it, produced a violin and bow. The couple then sat down in front of another pair of microphones and Francis began to move the bow across the strings of the violin, causing soft vibrations to echo through the microphone and to the crowd.

_"If I was a sculptor, but then again, no._

_Or a man who makes potions in a travelling show._

_I know it's not much but it's the best I can do,_

_My gift is my song and this one's for you,"_

Alfred closed his eyes as he pictured the lyrics, every moment from his past from when he and his brother, Matthew, would sing the song, coming to life with each word. They danced and sang the song all throughout their lives… it was only fitting that it would also be present in the biggest day of said brother's life.

_"And you can tell everybody this is your song._

_It may be quite simple but now that it's done,_

_I hope you don't mind,_

_I hope you don't mind that I put down in words,_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world."_

As he sung the last word, Alfred heard the harp being strummed, adding a sense of other-worldliness to the song. His blue eyes opened and watched as Francis and Jeanne smiled at each other as they played their instruments, love flowing out of their looks alone. It was then, in that moment, that Alfred realized that was what having a special someone was like; just looking at each other and knowing that your other half loved you with all their being, without ever having to say a word. As this epiphany sunk in, the American's head turned slightly, but never missed a chord or line, and looked out into the crowd for something. He didn't know why, but Alfred felt the need to find something, someone, but as to what or who it was, he was lost.

_"I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss._

_Well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross._

_But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song,_

_It's for people like you that keep it turned on"_

He was lost as to why he felt he needed to look out into the crowd of dry and wet eyes alike, browns, violets, and blues of friends and families melting together. Yes, he was lost, and he wanted to be found by whomever it was that he felt like he had to find.

_"So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do,_

_You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue._

_Anyway the thing is what I really mean,_

_Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen."_

As his brain was starting to take control over his emotions again, and tell him that he was being ridiculous, Alfred started to turn his attention back to the piano. However, before getting too far, he noticed a sparkle of green in the crowd of blues and browns. It reminded him of trees in summer as they swayed in the warm wind under the sun's bright rays of gold, and it warmed his heart.

_"And you can tell everybody this is your song._

_It may be quite simple but now that it's done,_

_I hope you don't mind,_

_I hope you don't mind that I put down in words,_

_How wonderful life is while you're in the world."_

Alfred felt his face break into a large smile as those eyes looked up at his own, his cheeks warming slightly as the owner of the green eyes returned his smile with a small one of his own. The young man's black suit with his green tie made Alfred's heart flutter as it enhanced the Brit's soft, pale skin and vibrant emerald eyes that made Alfred feel warm inside.

_"I hope you don't mind,_

_I hope you don't mind that I put down in words,"_

The singing man broke his trance from the man in the crowd and looked down at his brother as he softly sang the last couple of stanzas. The brothers shared that moment in equality, unknowingly, of their love for another being. The younger knowing of his own love for years, and the older just realizing it seconds before; but they were equivalent all the same.

_"How wonderful life is while you're in the world."_

Alfred turned his attention once again towards Arthur, as his fingers instinctively found the keys they had to press. His lips moved to allow the final words out of his body towards the newlyweds, but the words also seemed to want to leave his heart towards the man who kept a fire in his eyes. Alfred felt his mind scream at him for being an idiot to think that he could "love" someone who hated just hours before. It was true, the man was infuriating, obnoxious, corrected everything Alfred said, and even drunkenly flirted with him. Alfred would usually never associate with someone like Arthur. Yet, there he was, wishing that he could do more than "associate" with Arthur.


	27. January 27

**AUTHOR:** amaryka

**January 27th, 2014**

"Listen Arthur, I want you to be honest with me." Alfred sat down, pulling the other blond with him. "I want you to tell me what's been happening."

Arthur stared openly at Alfred for a long time. "I don't think you want to hear it…It's a long story."

"Of course I want to hear. You're important to me." Alfred squeezed Arthur's hands. "If there is anything I can do to help then I'll do it."

"There isn't anything you can do."

"Well tell me anyways."

Arthur gulped. He felt his nerves growing rapidly. "Why should I trust you?"

Alfred blinked. "Because we're friends."

"That doesn't matter, you could be pretending. And if I chose to trust you, I mean really trust you, then you'd be able to get me to do anything."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Alfred's brow creased in concern. "I would never…"

Arthur looked away, his cheeks hot. "I don't just hand out trust like gum."

"I guess I can understand that…But I still want to know."

"Well, how do I know you're not the same as every other bloke who pretends he wants to know me?"

Alfred was quiet for a long time and Arthur began to have a miniature heart attack. What if he really couldn't trust Alfred?

"I don't have anything to prove why you should trust me. So…You'll just have to trust me." Alfred sighed. "And I think you want to."

Arthur blinked. It took him a moment to realize it, but Alfred was right.

"So will you trust me this once? You've got to learn to trust people some time."

Arthur clenched his jaw and licked his lips. "Okay…well I don't know where to start."

"Wherever you'd like." Alfred smiled and got settled for a story.

Maybe trust wasn't such a bad thing after all?


	28. January 28 (Ice)

**AUTHOR:** givemelibertea

**January 28th, 2014 - Ice**

England didn't know how it had happened, or why he'd even let it happen in the first place, but somehow, on a bright and innocent looking afternoon, he found himself directing his shaky legs to glide across the ice of a frozen lake in a pair of rented skates.

"You're doing good. See? It's not that hard."

And of course, by all that he actually meant that America was doing most of the skating for him, and he was just focusing on staying upright.

"This is hardly any fun at all," England complained, cheeks bright red from the cold and embarrassment of basically being held around the waist by the other nation and pulled around, not to mention being outdone by the six year olds smirking at him as they skated backwards at light speed all around the lake.

"Once you start skating on your own, you'll see that it's great fun," America assured him, and slowly let his waist go. England panicked for a second before his hands were back, holding his to guide him forward as America himself skated slowly backwards.

"Well let me tell you, the last time I was on a bloody slab of ice floating on a body of water, I fell in and they only found my body a week later," the Englishman grunted, glaring at his feet as he willed them to go forward. "It wasn't exactly my idea of fun."

"But this lake is perfectly safe, England. There's nothing to be afraid of," America chuckled. "Besides, I'll be here to catch you if you fall."

"I'm not scared, and I certainly am not incompetent," England grunted. "I just don't see the fun in all this."

"You never know how to have fun anyway," America rolled his eyes, and slowly let go of England's hands. "My legs are getting stiff, so I'm going to do a lap around the lake real quick and be right back."

"What?" England's eyes shot up to stare at America's innocent grin. "Don't leave me alone here, you idiot!"

However, by the time he protested, America had already glided a bit further away.

"Skate, England! Skate!" the younger nation laughed and zoomed off.

"Bloody hell, what a mess," England grumbled, shakily sliding a foot forward, and attempting to pull his other leg along. His eyes never left his feet, and the ache of putting so much weigh on them almost made him want to sit down in the middle of the lake and never move again.

But he persevered, and he moved, and he was rather proud of himself for not falling while America was gone. He moved forward a few metres and slowly warmed up to the sport, before one of those talented six year olds he hated suddenly came barreling into him.

England let out a cry of surprise, and lost all the balance and skill he'd gotten in the past few minutes, dreading the impact as he fell back before he even hit the ice.

He swore his head cracked upon contact with the slippery surface, and he faintly heard the infuriating kid apologizing as he dashed away, although he couldn't see him at all. His entire vision went black for a split second, and when he came back, black spots danced in front of his eyes. The blurry image of a familiar American's face came into focus, bent over him.

"You okay?" He asked, slightly amused by the rage in England's eyes.

"Do I bloody look okay?" he seethed, accepting America's hand to get up, and slid a few times before finding stability in America's warm arms. "These bloody children don't have any manners, rushing into people like that!"

"He didn't see you. It happens all the time," America hummed, supporting England by the waist as he led them to the bank.

"You are all too apathetic about the fact that I now see black dots everywhere!" England grunted. "Screw it all, I'm done. It's cold, and I can't skate, and I'm just going to fall if I continue. I'm going to go sit."

"Don't be a party pooper, England," America rolled his eyes, pressing a comforting kiss to his temple. "It comes with practice."

"Yeah? Well I don't intend on practicing anymore." England untangled himself from America's arms, mood entirely ruined. "What a terrible idea for a date," he grumbled, and then, putting one foot in front of the other, swaying from side to side, all the while swearing at everything and everyone around him, England skated off towards the exit of the skating rink.

America laughed out loud, and then rushed over to his cross boyfriend to make sure nobody crashed into him on his way out.

"You don't mean that about a bad date," he hummed amusedly.

"I do, I assure you."

"Fine. Do you want to make it better with some hot cocoa in the cabin?"

"I'd rather have some tea to cool down, if you don't mind," England muttered.

"To cool down?" America couldn't help taking the bait in that sentence. Teasing England was an essential part of their relationship. "You're so cold already, babe!"

"Nothing that can't be fixed with a good cuppa."

"I was talking about your heart, hon," America laughed and took his hand as they skated the last stretch together.

"Oh, in that case…" England looked at him and finally let his expression melt into a smirk, squeezing his lover's hand. "I most definitely am cold. Cold as ice."


	29. January 29

**AUTHOR:** llianaut

**January 29th, 2014**

_Maybe if I fall asleep in ten minutes then I'll get at least five hours of sleep before I have to get up for work._ The ticking in the room almost sounded sporadic and manic enough that he couldn't believe that he never noticed how oppressive the clicks sounded when he would watch t.v. or cuddle with his partner. He hovered over the left side of his bed to the alarm clock situated on his nightstand and squinted to read the hands again – today, actually.

His hands were itching to ease his mind and pick up his phone. But it didn't seem worth the trouble because Arthur was lying beside him, buried under the covers, lightly snoring and occasionally emitting groans that Alfred only hears when Arthur sleeps after a particularly exhausting day of editing for a small publishing company.

Alfred heard a jingling as well as the familiar scurry of tiny paws. Why Arthur leaves their bedroom door open at night Alfred will never know. Though, this habit is a quick way of gauging whenever Arthur was in an intimate mood.

Hero, again, wakes up whenever he pleases, as though he owned the place. And now he's scampering up the bed to, Alfred correctly predicted, beg for an early breakfast. Alfred was familiar to the little guy's tricks despite that Arthur has been putty in his pudgy paws for two years now.

Hero seemed to realize that Arthur was dead asleep, so he decided to test his luck with Alfred. He's always been a pretty smart cat. Alfred could have even sworn that he once saw that cat looking both ways before crossing the street.

"Can't sleep either, huh, buddy?" Alfred said as though Hero understood him, though it seemed more likely that Hero recognized Alfred's soft tone as a sign that he was winning Alfred over. So, Hero gave Alfred's face a lick for good measure, and Alfred gave him a scratch behind his ear in return. "Okay, okay. Breakfast coming up, your majesty."

Hero chased after him as he got out of bed and head into their kitchen. In all honestly, it wasn't much of a kitchen considering that the oven couldn't even turn on and there was no room for a table.

The tiny cupboard was teeming with cat food, the most expensive kind that they could afford on budget which was still rather low-grade but definitely, Arthur made sure of that.

As soon as the wet salmon mash reached the bowl, Hero began practically inhaling his breakfast until he began coughing though it sounded more like sneezes.

_Must be a hair-ball. He's been coughing a lot these days, more than usual._

"Did you sleep well?" Arthur said,

"God, I just want to jump back into bed and sleep forever. Care to join me, my good sir?"

The soft meows near Arthur's feet drew his immediate attention. "Why, hello there," Arthur said, scooping Hero into his arms, cradling him like he would a child. "Aren't you just the sweet thing."

"Hey, I'd almost think that you like him more than me." Alfred caught Arthur's contagious smile.

"Well, he never seems to complain nor does he steal the comforter at night which can't be said the same for a certain someone in our home."

It was impossible to continue to tease Arthur. Especially when he called the apartment their home.

Arthur handed him a five dollar bill for lunch, as he usually does before Alfred leaves for work. Ever since they rented the apartment, they both decided that Arthur would take the responsibility of maintaining their budget.

"It's Hero's check up today. I'll be in and out of veterinary surgeon's office during my lunch break. Remember to eat something filling," Arthur said, giving Alfred a chaste kiss on the lips.

""

"Hello there, Alfred," Elizabeta said. "Not hungry again today?"

"Hey, "

"How have you and Arthur been lately?" Elizabeta knew about his relationship with Arthur, a bit too much he would say.

"Great, as always, but I have something extra amazing for him" Alfred leaned closer to whisper to her as though Arthur was in hearing distance. "I have this surprise planned for Arthur. I'm almost finished saving up for a round-trip vacation to England with him. He doesn't tell me often but I know he misses living there."

Elizabeta cooed with her mouth wide open to a smile, and Alfred could feel his face getting warm.

"Oh my- ! No, no. Of course I wouldn't dream of spoiling it for him. He's going to be so happy, I just know - but, but, wait." Her face deflated into a curious expression. "With your financial condition rather, um, unstable, how did you manage to afford this trip? Did Ludwig finally give you a raise?"

"I've been saving extra on the side." Silence filled the room.

"You. Oh, Alfred. So that's what why you've been skipping lunch." Though not confidential, it just didn't seem necessary to share with his co-workers the fact that Alfred's partner was giving him lunch money every day. Alfred had an unfortunate habit of divulge too much about his personal life with Elizabeta.

"I know, okay. That's why it needs to be a secret. It took months to just to save for airfare. It's nothing, alright? And, this trip means the world to him. I'm almost there."


	30. January 30

**AUTHOR:** hellieace

**January 30th, 2014**

America sat beside a lone grave in the beautiful garden in Hyde Park. The sun beamed brightly, a few birds chirped in the trees, and the shadow on the sundial moved ever-so slowly across the face. He sat with his knees up, nearly to his chest, and his arms folded over them. His crystal-blue eyes gazed straight ahead, at the house across the yard, and the closed door that faced him.

He'd sat like this for hours, England observed, as he sat on a small, quaint bench not too far off. It as almost as if he were waiting for something - or rather, someone - to open that door, and greet him with an intelligent smirk and friendly wave.

America did this every year. He sat watch, like a stony, blue-eyed gargoyle, over the polished grave in the center of the garden. Every year he watched the door, and every year England would sit quietly with him, but at a respectful distance. He had his own ritual for observing the remembrance of the leader that had helped to save him from Hitler's reign. America always respected that, and would be nearby for support.

Even though they were timeless, ageless beings they still hurt at the loss of mortal lives. Lives that touched them in so many ways. They weren't sad per se, but quiet, endless mourning was a small dose of the pain they felt day in and day out. There were other people America and England both missed, but for the blue-eyed man, the old war-time president was quite special.

"I know you're there," America finally said above the soft breeze after countless hours of silence.

England nodded in acknowledgement to the simple statement. This was part of the ritual. Every year it was the same.

"Do you miss Churchill?" Again, the same question England had been asked each year.

"Of course."

"Will you always miss him?"

"Yes."

The American was silent after that, and kept his sentinel watch upon the door. England said nothing else, and remained where he was. The hours ticked by, and slowly but surely the shadow on the sundial grew longer and longer before the night stole it away in the darkness. High above, stars shimmered faintly. Arthur gazed up to the jewel encrusted sable blanket that hung above them. The sky was beautiful tonight, yet the door of the home did not open. No occupants came out to see the heavens all aglow. But America watched it still.

"England."

Said man cast his gaze down to the shadowed figure of the man beside the grave.

"Yes?" he replied.

"I'll always miss him."

"I know."

"Do you think he misses me?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Even his wife?"

"She always found you charming."

America nodded, and finally stretched out his legs. Even from this distance, England could see the younger nation smiling brightly up at the gorgeous stars.

"I wish you could see it," he murmured to the grave, and then rose to his feet. The soreness in his muscle was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. But he smiled on, brighter than ever. England knew that as his cue, and rose as well.

Approaching the grave, England paused to allow America his goodbyes.

The blue-eyed man patted the grave playfully, and then went to his lover. Offering his elbow, he smiled thankfully to the Englishman. Looping his arm with America's, the two walked arm-in-arm to the empty home. But before they vanished through the door that never opened, America glanced back, and waved.

"Goodnight, buddy! And happy birthday!"

In the darkness, and under the brilliance of millions of stars, the lone grave stood ever faithful in its guardianship over the garden as the two immortals vanished. The grave of Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, watched the lovers go on another year.


	31. January 31

**ARTIST:** doitsu-therapist

**(art can be viewed at the Tumblr or LJ under this URL)**

**AUTHOR:** lilmayflower

**January 31st, 2014 - Little Fairy**

Alfred sat in his room, looking into a small shoe box filled with little toy furniture. It had been a bit embarrassing to buy the items, but he thought it had been necessary to do so to keep his little friend safe and happy. He had rescued a small fairy a few months ago. And boy, that had been an adventure for him.

The little fairy was named Arthur; he was the grumpiest fairy Alfred had ever seen. He complained about anything and was very moody. But for whatever reason, the little fairy never went way, he was always either in his make shift house that Alfred made for him, or in Alfred's hair pulling on it to get attention.

Though to be fair, Arthur could be nice. He told stories about great myths and legends from around the world, some of which, Alfred had never even heard of before, he tries to help clean the apartment and cook. Though, after the incident with him falling into the cake batter and almost getting cooked, he doesn't get to help Alfred in the kitchen as much anymore.

But really, it makes Alfred smile whenever he saw little Arthur. "Look Artie, you have another room to add to your house!" Alfred said with joy.

Arthur looked away from the mirror on Alfred's dresser to see the other holding up another shoe box. He gave a slight smile before jumping up in the air and let his transparent green wings glide him over to see what Alfred had done.

He saw no signs of wet paint in the box, so the fairy landed carefully inside. Alfred had painted the walls of the box a pale blue color, he noticed a small little table and a couple of chairs had been repainted to a much more calming brown and white then the bright pink they had been before.

A kitchen set was also in his new little room, it had small little dishes and a few cabinets that could be open, and there was a small hole in one of the walls, which served as the doorway to the rest of his little custom box house once Alfred finished putting it together for him.

"This is… really nice Alfred, thank you." Arthur really did like how this looked; he was so pleased that he didn't have the heart to tell Alfred off for calling him that blasted nickname again.

"Heh, no problem, I'm just glad you like it." Alfred rubbed the back of his head, beaming with happiness. Arthur smiled again and jumped out of the box, flew into Alfred face and giving him a kiss on his nose before flying out of Alfred's bedroom to some other part of the apartment.

It was a little while later, but Alfred had managed to put the finishing touches on the mini kitchen he made for the little green fairy. It was exciting to him to see what he called, 'the fairy house' grow bigger each week.

It wasn't much later that Arthur came back into the room yelling at him to go eat, did the young American finally put his tools down for the night. He placed the mini kitchen on his dresser, deciding to finish putting it together with the rest of the house tomorrow.

He talked to Arthur while making a simple TV dinner for them to share together. Varying from asking about his home in the woods, and what other stories he had, to what other rooms Arthur would like to see in his little house.

They sat in the living room and watched TV as they ate, bickering over the shows. After dinner and cleaning up, both went to go to bed. Arthur grabbed one of the cloths he turned into a blanket from his house and hopped onto one of Alfred's pillows, making himself comfortable as the other climbed into bed on the other side, also making himself comfortable.

Alfred turned the light off and turned around, facing his friend. Sometimes, if Arthur was in a very good mood or if they had been watching horror movies, he would come and sleep in Alfred's bed and tell him old stories about the fairies or about his old home in England.

Arthur chuckled, he already knew what the other wanted, he didn't mind, it was fun once in a while to talk about some of his memories of his old home and recount the tales his mother would tell him and his siblings when they were growing up.

Alfred always found Arthur's story telling abilities to be wonderful, how he could always make it that the young American just had to close his eyes and he could see the places that the other described, see the faces of the people he talked about. It was just so wonderful to him.

Alfred yawned, his eyes getting heavier by the second, he wanted to stay up and keep listening but his body was fighting him, urging him to go to sleep. Arthur saw this and smiled, laughing quietly.

"Go on Alfred, go to sleep, I'll finish telling you tomorrow." Arthur urged as well. Alfred blinked a few times, still fighting off sleeping, but just gave up and nodded with another yawn.

"Okay, just don't forget." Alfred watched the other nod, and smiled. "Night Arthur."

"Good Night Alfred."


End file.
